I suck...and other things...

[Truerenigma]

I write total shit. Can anyone make this passage better for me? Admittedly, it's mid-sequence, so you don't know where it's coming from or going...but anyway...

Springtime is beautiful here in the mountains.
How humbling to be once again overcome
By what sheerly exists beyond thinking it so...

Here it made sense to stop. For was not here
A place we marked out, a dominion we set apart
For what of ourselves to this world we owe,

For what of ourselves the will of the world,
This park, this grandeur, was it not conceived
Of some distant anguish, something forsaken,

Some need of a common past, an idea
Of ourselves to preserve, when we were this,
All and only this, until the regard of death?

Not here a kingdom divine, here not the throne
Of a God, here but the fact of the manifest
Endlessly being nothing more than itself,

For nothing it seems to lack, seems not a thing
Of itself to be known, forever expressing,
Ever possessing the means of itself.

*****

Is here not our eden, not here dwell the idea
Of our primordial self, what makes us all
Of itself, takes us all back unto itself?

Gazing for what lies within it, yet no more
Of itself in this darkness to be found, therein
But the barren womb, what had to've contained

Its immanence, else of its own immanence
It came wholly to be, created itself
Of once all that itself could possibly be.

Was not here the place of our fall, here not
The hour when something writhed free of itself,
Opened these eyes in the void of ourselves?

Not a myth this breach with our origin, nor
A figment the primal wound, such but our fate
Of what simply happened, of what of itself

The possible emerged, what in ourselves
Came distinctly to be, these aberrant eyes
Beholding in awe the raw plight of ourselves.

*****

Herein the savage consciousness, once woken
Within us, wherein till our end it abides,
What put our minds at war with existence itself.

Is this not the grim fire of original sin, not
The unmistakable scent of primeval guilt,
The unfaltering beat of primitive shame,

What bore our need of deliverance, the cry
Of the outcast, urge for atonement, the quest
For the relevant, the transcendent accord?

We breathe you to live, drink you to live, eat you
To live, kill you, defend you, breed you to live,
We of you who became orphaned by you,

We that imagine of you, we that reason
Of you, we in the starkness of death in this life
Endeavoring to find, create meaning of you.

Here not a kingdom divine, not here the throne
Of a God, here we confront our creator,
Here in the eden of our heart's discontent.

Make it better for you? are you asking for rewrite or crit? As it stands there are some good elements and device in play. I like the way it doubles back on itself and tangles itself in itself. It could use some of the work it is worth yes but the sum of the work may be worth the sum of the work.