Under the Surfaces

I wonder about Milton
words and images just
beyond comprehension,
and my friend, who teaches
Theology, hates him.

I’ve long been intrigued
about corruption of souls.
Faust has my curiosity
piqued, and Mephistopheles
ready to unlearn piety.

But more than any personality,
I have longer mused on Boethius’s burden, the world created by MacDonald, his fairy queen, and
the wisdom poured out in
works of Lewis and Tolkien.

To wonder about the afterlife
the great unspoken before,
and truly grasp
what it is to be human,
takes a mind unwarped,
which, Descartes argued, exists.

I don’t dare think about the fire,
and I shudder to think some
wish for it. It is a pain
unending, and I cannot prove
Heaven or Hell.

What you do in your afterlife,
in your life, is up to you,
but those who believe in nothing
suffer a fate far worse than burning.

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