Is that the queue,
the line that infers I am chosen, special,
and all those waiting, so patient,
believe it too, standing expectantly,
hope so polished in their eyes,
mesmerized by thoughts of heaven’s gate,
soft clouds and tending angels,
ethereal beings of change and life ever-lasting?
The line is long, meandering,
expedient angels with click-boards fuss,
collecting names and keeping up
with the noon day rush,
and down the line they acquiesce
to pre-evaluate the applications,
and I consider my credentials,
perhaps a mistake with my essentials.
The line shortens,
and an angel is moving closer
to check my ‘Golden Ticket’,
but I can see the front of the line,
and can’t see those pearly gates,
the clouds end and there’s just a drop,
and I hear the screams of each soul falling,
a fading, unsettling din.
‘Name?’ the angels asks,
and I stumbled into a tentative claim,
the list is checked and check again,
but no name…
‘Not on the list,’ said abruptly,
‘Back, that way,’ he pointed gruffly
and I turned and happily left,
no gates, no way.
Wandering amid the clouds,
I get the feeling that I’m not allowed,
this place is some checkpoint to where,
no pearly gates in sight that I’m aware,
and a stomach knot
is playing havoc with my mind,
perhaps my destination is not so kind,
where I’m supposed to be, not here.
Tony DeLorger © 2018