atop the angels
there rests such a division
that lies unseen by mortal eyes

always a follower of Perfection,
Man strives to discern the sight,
but to no avail; he has not the might

and though it be a view too common,
one in sight of prince and pauper alike,
there exist the Blind Ones, who govern this earth
who see not e'en the sight able of mortal eyes
rather, their wishing eyes hope not to fall upon such a scene:
a silence unheard of this side of His paradise,
near forgotten deeds that once spoke of great sacrifice,
ill fated steeds set to take their turn with the dice,
only to be let down by their Rider

He, the Rider, caught between the threshold amist fire and ice-
standing as a soldier in salute, resting midway-
beneath: the ghastly inferno, flame torch of the Lost Souls
above: an icy paradise, to soothe the Fires of this Life

Atop the angels
there rests such a division

so dense the grains of earth
that acknowledge their decision