No Better than my Fathers

Since the Fall we have all
Struggled to return.
But on the road to Eden stands
An Angel with a flaming sword.

There is a sort of shanty town here, built in safety
Just beyond His reach.
Diverse inhabitants -
United only by our certainty
That each will be the one to find
A new and better path to freedom.
Poor lost circus performers,
Donkeys, who drew back;
Actors, lost in character -
We share this common cry:
"O, Let not our God speak to us for fear we die!"

Some choose complete abandon
Let go their inhibitions as if that wild and will-less Baal worship
Could translate them into Reality
(Frenzied flopping in a Goldfish Bowl.)

Some choose a solemn pruning of Habit and Demeanor
Attempt to act out life in Eden, bring it down to them on Earth.
A last-ditch effort; Hail Mary
(The blind rehearsing what they never saw.)

For there is no path from here to there but through the flames
No way back but through that sword
We will remain but squatters in this twilight place
Until we learn to cry
"O Lord, Take away my life -
I am not better than my fathers!"