A place
so afraid of hell
it denies God
allows no poems.
Seagulls disappear
after only a moment,
corn liquor of prose
is always served.
Intoxication
is here the highest high
but they go as low as they want
because they can.
Trying to steal from perfection
deals the soul,
makes the cards a game to lose,
no more a prophecy of heaven.
