Daughter of Perdition

IT’S THIS AIR I breathed forever,

the sacrament of submission.

It was noble, and we were equal, they said.

Though my body was the very symbol of sin.

And then it, that air, went up in glorious flames—

a moment’s glimpse of a strange heaven,

where equality was not a gesture, but a vision—

then returned to ash in my lungs.

Maybe a world unlocked never was exile—

it’s strange to think they could be wrong;

strange to think this air I breathe

could be blasphemous, second-hand smoke.

It was a lovely garden, by all accounts.

It was lush, always, with clover to trod upon,

and I never knew hunger;

water as clear as the summer skies--

running and giggling, frolicking;

the scent of roses whispered through the air, stowing away

even in days of Yule.

Yes, it was a lovely garden.

But the tree, the one both light and dark—

it stood on the eastern outskirts;

and spoke a different beauty—

A trunk twisting and turning, knotted and hollowed;

it cast shadows;

not another tree nor stone in all of the garden

could be found with a shadow.

Even I had not yet a shadow.

I was told not to partake of the fruit—

I’ve no reason or desire to deny.

I was told not to partake on promise of death and exile,

sorrow and pain.

But I did.

Dear Reader, I feasted.

And mine eyes were opened.

I saw there was more—

more than just that single story.

More gardens, yes, but also—

barren wastelands and deep seas,

mountaintops…townspeople and firesides—

a Universe of imaginings—

All with their own stories.

It was a lovely garden, yes,

but I could not abide.

And I saw myself out.

Maybe a world unlocked

Never was exile.