I traveled on a shooting star one day

And saw massed souls all thronging heaven’s gate;

Wrought iron bars secured that pearly way,

Their steepled spires loomed tall in silent wait.

The grounds lay littered thick with crumpled prayers

High piled in mounds against broad golden walls,

And yet beyond the gilded confines there

The edifice stood dark beneath a pall.

The keeper of the keys could not be seen—

A dozen shuttered gates stood past that door;

At lower heights were scrawled some words obscene

And near the crowd, a toppled pulpit form.

I wondered as I rode that stellar span,

If but the landlord cut his loss and ran.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.