It’s guaranteed better in pastures of fire,
The drink made of honey, and bland.
But the reason for entry remained elusive.
Perpetually we looked for a shepherd’s crook.
It was only then that the refugees became
Bewitched by the economy, which had overgrown
Its flickering bulbs, winter at its damnedest.
Perhaps you were perceived as a cul-de-sac,
A worn mountain of bungalows and hideaways.
The matter was brought about by degenerates.
They were always uncertain, a lunar rhythm.
She wheeled aimlessly to the shore, granting
Not a single interview before she left, pleased
With her escape. Misery, then, was a garden.