"Heaven" Has Different Signs&Mdash;To Me
Poem By Emily Dickinson
There comes a time, my sweet,
passed down through cirrus clouds
to man, by little messengers from God,
whom children know as proper angels;
where true believers do adore their wings
and all of Heaven's precious things,
it's stuck in hieroglyphs, papyrus-white,
and says it as it is, for me, when time has come.
Will you not stand and use your armour now, they ask?
The sword of Attila, honed at the foundry's glow,
you must defy your destiny, beat demons to the ground,
or will you falter at the sight of Hannibal?
I was, and there is ample proof as I am proud,
laying my hand upon the portas to convey
that Caesar's soldiers shall prevail to honour all
when mighty clouds did part and He then spoke to me.
I shall not fret at God's own wishes, nor obey,
the word of man is without meaning, bare of pride.
Perhaps there WILL be time and willingness to pray
as I embark on my most silly, final ride.