The Nephilim Poem by Mark Sauer

Behold the wretched Nephilim, cast down
Upon the eighth day from infinite height,
Shorn of arched wings, of iridescent crown,
Of even (sole grace) memory of flight.
Wracked in phantom pinions by phantom pain
They restlessly grasp, through the endless time,
What surcease of ennui they can obtain
Clasping comely daughters of clay and slime
To people this pebble in the void, that bounds
Their ken, with seed to share their misery;
As the cold rock tumbles through dreary rounds
They sink into a duller reverie
'Midst the fading race that they've begotten,
Rememb'ring that, not what, they've forgotten.