the gates of the saints
'aint in the straightaway
I just passed cloud eight
above the plane of the soundscape
and I arrive on cloud nine
right on time to dine
on the cuisine for mine eyes
every moment I'm surprised
by a new prize of sorts
on my cloud concourse
my mind immediately divorced
from any form of scorn
in this cerabim forum
filled with Christmas like decorum
I stand out like a sore thumb
out of them there's no one
who bears tattoos of their sins
as a matter of fact their visage
is prestigious and perfect
they are prefects and I'm worthless
despite this bold contrast
I'm glad for where I stand
it's an improvement upon the past
but I haven't had the last laugh...
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