Behind Smoke

To Earth came you, from mystic realms unknown.
A sperm and egg amalgam in the womb,
exploding into daylight with a groan
and fated to a vague, but certain doom.
Predicamentally, time is not all
that dogs the liklihood of your demise.
The scourge of plague or accidental fall,
or war and poverty or men's damn lies;
all clamor for your death. A life of pride
and greed, will find you begging at the gate,
where non-religious angels, side by side,
with men who've trounced delusion celebrate,
immortal love and light, while yet still here,
long sung in Myth, as paradise most dear.