Wings of Wind,
Crown of Storms,
A sword of Fire,
Within the Thorns.

Garden green,
Filled to the brim,
With animals
And wistful whim.

Now is lost,
To Sin and Blight,
The Serpent boasts,
About its might.

Untouched apple,
Pure to sight,
Laced with Wisdom,
Will, and Fright.

An Angel, fallen,
His heart of ice,
He burned away,
At Paradise.

First-made humans,
Thrown the blame,
Now walk through endless,
Desert plain.

Children thought,
Made, and conceived,
Added to
The Serpent's weave.

Two young boys,
With skin so fair,
Of purest heart,
And charcoal hair.

The Serpent slithers,
The eldest, it spots,
Fills mind with lies,
The Soul, it rots.

Anger raging,
Sin at work,
The Serpent hides,
And stays to lurk.

It changes, shifts,
To human form,
With blackened wings,
And mind of scorn.

Cries of mercy,
The Spirit fled,
Cain then realized
That Abel was dead.