The widow winnowed down her pick
Of things to go below the ground.
"A knife," she said. "Four more," she said.
"In Heaven, boxes won't stay bound."
He freed the lids on gifts for kids
And whittled pencils to a point.
He sawed some bread, cut fraying thread,
And pruned the branches at the joint.
His spirit rose toward Heaven's height,
Alight with glowing flight he climbed
Those airy rungs. His humming lungs
Were blithe--communal sighing-timed.
An evil presence trailed a scent,
Then trailed ascent to Heaven's ledge.
They followed him, their purpose grim,
Usurping demons hissed a pledge.
"We'll stalk until we're shown the way--
Immortal portal we must strike!
We'll roundly whelm oppressive realm
With hellish club and wicked pike.
We hate the Lord of Lords who built
A world to sing and praise one name.
Such envy drives our bitter lives,
To plunder glory is our aim."
Their sneering was the facial cross
Of warthog and a Conger eel.
With weapons drawn, they floated on,
Sought realness for a vague ideal.
Postmortem man observed the chase,
A gang of monsters plotting coup.
The ten of them he would condemn
With every move he knew to do.
"I guess protecting Heaven shall
Become a duty I must bear.
No creatures' scheme can kill the dream
I have of touching sacred air.
My empty hand you could withstand,
But love enclosed some proper help.
I'll now unsheath my metal teeth--
The bite that comes is from no whelp."