To Hell on a Technicality

In the jumble of an infant's nursery
Two blocks rest, held by just a touch.
The door opens, and the little one's mom enters.
Her foot sweeps the ground, brushing toys, and the blocks are scattered.
The baby sees his source of love erase the shape, and takes the message to heart.
To Hell on a technicality.

Rainbows stretched and hung between wind-sharpened peaks are strung through tatters, fluttering like delicate hearts in bliss.
It's a place no one has entered from beyond the mountains' girdle in living memory.
Day after day a fallen tree stares at the people, mutely pleading.
It's two halves meet at their centers, held by just a touch until their blind audience takes an axe to them. No one notices the shape; it burns in the fires, soon to gain great company.
To Hell on a technicality.

In a peaceful yard lined with stone
Venerable trees send down their earthy tendrils
Into the rich soil between cushioned boxes.
All is still, above and below.
After many years a root gnaws through the box, and finds it empty.
The silk is unstained.
Nearby another tree splits a lid, but is met by worms.
The grass above the flawless grave is cooled by the shadow of a cross, strong marble gleaming in the sun.
Over the defiled grave lie only flowers, waiting for the next rain to wash them away.
To Hell on a technicality.