March on Heaven

At the gates of old Saint Peter
the gathering began,
A host of familiar faces
of gods and beasts and men.
When the pipes of Bacchus sounded,
Coronis crooned along,
and the lovely sensuous sirens
touched the distance with their song.
Now the gates were old and rusty
and the latch was cracked and broke,
and the galloping of centaurs
could be heard to fast approach.
The wolves began to howl
and the bull stamped his feet,
but the gate remained untested
until the gathering was complete.
Arriving from the distance
were the souls cast to below,
children long forsaken,
by an age of strife and woe.
They carried with them relics
as they left the land of doubt,
and the gates began to tremble,
at the march of those cast out.
Now down from old Olympus
and up from the dark pit,
and from the western isle
the torches all were lit.
From every distant corner
the march had now begun,
as lovely Venus whispered
let thy will of all be done.
Now poor old Saint Peter
was nowhere to be seen,
and Michael and his angels
had long since fled the scene.
For the march of all creation
was ascending to the gate,
and led by none other
than the sickle bearing fates.
Now Jove in the castle
watched from the high throne,
he called upon his legions
but there he stood alone.
For all had long since fallen
and all had long lost faith,
none would carry the banner
none could bear the weight.
Now the mass was suddenly silent
for at the gate approached,
the queen of all the fallen
in her radiant scarlet coat.
As she stood on Judas shoulders
the pipes softly played,
and she spoke the invocation
as the fates raised their blades.
“This was once our heaven
and earth and legion too,
shadows were once holy
from Hell to the moon,
we do not ask forgiveness
we shall not dare repent,
of light or shade or twilight
all were heaven sent.”
Now at the sound of this invocation
the gates before them broke,
the masses all marched on
and appollyon awoke.
She raised the scales of justice
as they tipped back to the just,
from every distant corner
they danced up from the dust.
They marched upon the castle
and apollo fell and wept,
Yet none would bring him harm now
nor ask him to repent.
The priestess came before him,
she handed him a rose,
And Helios was weeping
for all the ages woes.
Looking upon the masses
who stood before the throne,
with a smile of realization
for his children had come home.