This is the idea I posited a long way back.
Blasphemy
Here am I in tennis flannels and a blazer
On the turret of my castle built apart,
I have honed my body daily with a razor
To keep my skin as sinless as my heart.
There's a garden far below me which is Heaven
With animals and flowers and a lake,
And the years of all the angels are eleven,
And Satan squats behind them with a rake.
A gateway and an avenue of trees is
Where those angels gather, at the farther end.
How their bodies dance and shimmer in the breezes,
How every one among them is my friend!
But the avenue is long and growing longer,
Every minute, every hour of every day,
And I know my life is wrong and getting wronger,
Yet these are things I cannot put away.
It is blasphemy, the priests and levites mutter
From their gospel vantage on the other side:
The knives of God will slice your soul like butter
And your soulless body rot upon the tide.
Yet I cannot and I will not, though I wither
Like the flowers as I hold them in my hand,
And I hear a rustling, dessicated slither
As Satan repossesses all the land.
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