Triptych

In all the expanses of Heaven,
There are no angels, there is no sunlight.
There are no harps and hearts and feathers.
There, witches offer pink cotton candy,
And there, demons dwell in pastel crayons.

Under the chapel is the ninth gate of Hell.
Here lay the thinkers, the rebels, the magicians of light and death.
We question, converse, keep ourselves company.
The greats are with us, those before their time,
Who used their allotted world-tolerance too early.

The unfinished works and businesses hover over the lawn,
Passing through time, to pass the time,
Until their time has passed on and below.
They walk, north-south, south-north, in the skylights,
And cling to the stones of the gate as they drift.