Sonnet 452

I traveled on a shooting star one day
And saw massed souls all thronging heaven’s gate;
Wrought iron stood to block that pearly way,
Pressed hands in steepled form set there to wait;
The grounds were littered quite with crumpled prayers
High piled in mounds against the golden walls
And yet beyond the gilded confines there
The edifice seemed dark, as in a pall.
The keeper of the keys could not be seen
More gates beyond that door, a dozen sure,
At lower heights were scrawled some words obscene
And near the crowd a toppled lectern clear.
I wondered as I rode that stellar span,
Upon return, perhaps a novel plan.

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