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. 

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