The nearby temple rose upward, centerpiece among
barren burial mounds. Easy access to the Pearly Gates.
Enclosed in scrolling iron-leafed fence-work,
to either keep the spirit in
or out. Independent plots of inactivity
unearthing the power of prayers unanswered.
Dilly-dallying in its precise prowling
for good or evil, the short or long of it,
right or wrong of it, Psalming song of it.
A miniature version of heaven I suppose.

A man of the cloth has conferred with
The Almighty in his dreams it seems.
A derivative from another dimension implicating
this sanctuary of culture and elegance.
Strict and spectacular observations
of customary ceremony;
colorful and moving rituals to assist us in
cleaving our road to glory. Amen.

Such precision remains a mystery,
miles high and so long spanning, maybe
twelve billion light years away or tomorrow
as is His choosing I guess.
That’s what I’ve been told anyway.

*Niederngasse, The Journal Of Winning Poetry; September 1998 *SalonDArte; October 1998 *Little Read Writer’s Hood; December 1998-POEM OF THE MONTH *Preditors and Editors 1998 Readers Poll Contest; Placed #8 (tied); January 1999

© Getty & Fey.