The Wanted End Poem by Noah Smits

What do these people want in the end of a man?
A paradise found; maybe a glorious home?
And what would be their loss if fate doth handle him well?
At worst it's the ground; it is the cold grip of loam

Whence burgeoned the urge to disparage a man?
With adamant chains; with a fiery hell?
Who merged such a scourge with mankind's holiest tome—
With the pardoning assurance of love's citadel?

Does the Spirit not still rustle inside of a man?
Does his sanctified conscience like unblemished chrome
Not infix him with worry, in every last cell—
Of torment's enmeshment, as hair in a comb?

What do these people want in the end of a man
If eternal pain's notion is not promptly dispelled?
Perhaps the same human rancor boiling under the dome
Is the fuel used to keep alight their spurious hell.