There’s a way to Heaven, it is said.
Shut by means of judge, or jury.
With book in hand,
Yet the deeds their own…
Condemned? Or saved?
The illusion is,
Your prison tome.

Some have passed,
Most have failed…
Many lost themselves to corruption,
They now decorate our theater,
Providing bumpers or a paddle,
For your ass to pinball cleaner,

But ultimately go nowhere fast…

“You see, dear…
They don’t own their own demeanor.”

The gates existence, by matter of fact,
Creates divides.
Not of flesh, but of mind
And psychological tides.
Dichotomy blossoms
As common sense sighs,
War gears up,
While love hides,
And moms tear up
Watching their sons die.

This…
All because of a line.
Imaginary made real,
By perceptual swaying of controlled fears.
Just a line, one side no different from the other
But belief builds it a wall,
 which only keeps getting higher.
Now there are guards in the towers and
Heaven starts looking like a prison yard.
But which sides which, and who’s with God?

The joke, my friends,
Is Heaven is always right where you stand.
No one can give it to you, nor take it away.
It’s not a gift you receive, not even a lesson to learn.
It’s not a dollar amount, there’s no award.

There’s no test to pass, or path to roam,
It’s just a choice that you make,
And then your home.

~Bardos