A small child in peasant clothes approached heavens gates with nothing to show
Three angels stood before him adorned in gold, crimson and purple robe

One questioned countenance the other pondered purity
The last imbued sorrow not knowing the fear in thee

They spoke in sly parables proposing situations and decisions
Then asked him for his without one knowing the meaning that was hidden

He answered in joyful simplicity speaking directly from the heart
Responses influenced by his mind left them thinking the boy was too smart

They asked him of death, life and realms that lie yonder
They questioned him was it his savior or their God who made him stronger?

He replied with curious eyes why either the child or the father mattered in inspiration
After all, if all comes from him could he not simply be proud of his creations?

The trio grew furious and stated he directly answer the question
Having reasoned there was not wrong nor right he’d simply do his best then

He replied, “The son.”
They wished the Father, but looked within him only to find a spirit pure

Their eyes filled with fear and he’d known what they’d seen
Somewhere in this infinite divisible only by self-created mean
Is value ill-defined by pearls, diamonds, and papers colored green

He’d known from that night, moment and day
That when he’d approached heaven’s gate. He should be weary of what he’d say

But inside lie nothing but emptiness and void beings
Humbled servants, absent minds and plundered feelings

The child of God akin to all locked outside or in

Had been cast to Hell for having past stepped reason and accepting sin
And there he’d lay a creation, wonder and child of the father

His proudest creation and greatest enemy
The demon, the misunderstood; the shadow king martyr