If what the say about heaven
is accepted
on faith as
what waits at the end
is accepted
on faith as
what waits at the end
of the path, then:
every face
reps an abstract expression,
and what used to pass
for pumpkins
don’t now sit deflated—
reverse-skinned
by psychopaths,
garish smiles
childishly gashed—
childishly gashed—
in their new patch
made of concrete
at the top
of Valhalla’s steps.
