On the seventh day
God woke up with aspirations
He made light, he made wind
King of Kings was dialed in
What instead ensued
Was an interlude
Fueled, it appears, by a dearth of ideas
In his image, made
We are fated to inertia
Even Eve, even Eve
She still puts her fig leaves on one at a time
Pass the serpent’s gift
If you fall, I fall
Fall, I fall
Fall from this greenhouse to be with you
Just sew the Eden patch on our rucksacks and we’ll
Traipse onto songs and scrapes
Stubbed toes and children and poetry
I’ve had wicked dreams
That are tantamount to treason
Something real, something raw
Gravel teeth and Krav Maga
I put microphones in my knucklebones
So I can strike and hear pain on the mic
Utopian days we woke
Lackadaisical and naked
And what’s odd, even Eve
She still put her fig leaves on one at a time
Pass the serpent’s gift
If you fall, I fall
Fall, I fall
Fall from this greenhouse to be with you
Just sew the Eden patch on our rucksacks and we’ll
Traipse onto songs and scrapes
Stubbed toes and children and poetry
For our
Postlapsaria travelogue
Copyright 2026 Zach London