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Heaven's Toil

The spoils of heaven, kept safe in a soulless shell.

Heaven's toil forever churning in a cyclic hell.
A longing for perfection elusive and hard to find,
out of frustration heaven becomes blind.

Utopia is not borne on the wings of millennia,
or even of days.
But on moments so fleeting they burst, shimmer,
and then fade.
The measure of heaven is not in eternity,
but in the burning of seconds that smolder in time.

Lightning that flashes along the periphery.
Delicate streaks so seldom seen,
yet in their wake the thunder rumbles and rings.
A subtle cacophony that disrupts our days,
and a gentle discord that haunts our nights.

It's a sincere smile, a heartfelt laugh, or a solemn tear
drifting towards an empathetic ear.
Within these unexpected glances therein Nirvana lies,
lightning in a bottle if only we open our eyes.
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