Some Say there Is a Golden Ladder
Some say there is a golden ladder—
It’s secretly discussed by the press.
No paper covers or flatters,
As though the point should be put to rest.
Those who wrote of holy sin captured
What was told to the masses in jest
Since angels, weary of the Rapture,
Fled quick — mortality a failed test.
The laborers stuck to fight capture,
Sharpening blades for unholy raids
In attempts to destroy the ladder.
It’s said that those who’ve seen the flavors
At the top get rid of what matters
Since the rungs were their only savior.
Some say a boy once saw the structure,
Rushed to it, eager for splendor,
To find the ladder a render,
Practically a mirage with gold paint.
The top was boarded, though looked tender,
As if welcomed just if worth the rank.
These stories insist that the papers
Know the ladder is stained-over rust;
That capturers need a long line
So someone’s always behind.
A line has order like ladder rungs,
Keeping big eyes small, unrewindable.
Some say there is a golden ladder
Always a fingertip away.