Tell the poet to shut up

Tell the poet to shut up when presenting himself to Heaven.
It is a sterile place.  There are no words
here. I prefer mud
on the soles of my feet, squishing up through my toes.

I have walked miles and I am very thirsty.
The desert is vast and vacant of life.
The sun destroys without trees
to shade us and hold the earth.

There had been two trees
that filtered the deadly desert sun
and made an oasis for Adam and Eve
but one was chopped down.

I stand before the gates,
and wonder why I need a key.
Is it to keep me out,
or to keep something in?


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