The Risky Business of Predictions

Hey, it's a snow angel! Metaphor not included!

The premise of this story focuses on a guy who has just passed away and is entering Heaven where he takes a position with the Department of Irony. I don't spend a lot of time dealing with the details and I have no idea why it came out as a poem. 

I realize there is a need to polish up the middle acts as well as seeking redemption for some syllable and meter abuses; those issues will get cleaned up later rather than sooner.

The funeral had ended, the soul had ascended
To chez Pearly for a new set of orders.
His wings were uncrated and quickly inflated
As his territory was assigned without borders
To the rookie Angelic, it appeared psychedelic 
But he nodded a lot and behaved.
As he stood there and waited, his fears then abated
He was just happy that he had been saved .

He had lived a good life; without anguish or strife 
And followed most of the rule book
Heaven was quite clean; with ecumenical sheen
And his wings had a sleek holy fast look
He was awaiting the next phase, when he caught some large sun rays
And was told that the Man was approaching
He kneeled with elation, as this orientation
Appeared to be heading quickly towards broaching.

Then the new angel stood and waited, when the pomp had abated 
He was anxious to be given his new gig
Sadly, only Irony was open and there was no use in moping
So he marched in, adjusting his rig
"I think my opinions, match up well with Dominions
I can spot sins, both venial and mortal"
The man presented a smile and handed over his file
And told him the rules, suppressing a chortle.

"Congrats on the wings, but is one of those things,
But rank-wise you’re down at the bottom.
You’re here in your finery, to only dispense irony
But to teach them, make sure that you got ‘em
So stick with the facts and don’t judge their acts
Because vengeance is handled upstairs,
We go twenty-four seven, up here in Heaven
 You’re on third shift and you work in pairs."

“You can’t solo just yet; your wings are a bit wet,”
Said the boss without getting dramatically misty
“Your job will be made clear when your new partner gets here

She’s ironically from Corpus Christi.”

So he looked at the file and after awhile
Asked the boss for a spiritual update
“She needs a meeting and an appropriate greeting
As soon as she comes through the front gate.”
She arrived the same way as he did earlier that day
And she was full of the same type of queries
He heard the same answers again, but held quiet within
‘Cause he didn’t know who won the Series
After pleasantries concluded, they were quickly extruded
With instructions to go get their sleep
Their shift time was coming and the shock was now dumbing
Down most of their earthly based keep.

Halos spinning with insight and checklists for pre-flight
The two met some incoming Virtues
They pushed them aside and told to steer wide, 
Because “Next time we will likely hurt you.”
They collapsed in the bunks, alarms awaking their funks
It was showtime for the flying recruits
They flew from their bunks, checked their wing for sleep clumps
And ran down the hall for their routes.

They had two stops that night, and to his delight
The first one was back to his hometown
Their primers were packed, their music re-racked
And a careful lint brushing of work gowns
They flew to the first house, and hear a large grouse
That was taking the Big Man in vain
While loudly complaining of circumstance straining
His internal agnostic pain.

“My life’s in the tank, with no Savior to thank,”
Said the victim of grave over reaching
The angels were shocked, is someone half-cocked?
How could this man need ironical teaching?
They listened for more dope, to see how much more rope
Would be needed to see all the issues
His commute had increased due to processions deceased
And grieving families employing their tissues.

The rookies blankly stared as this man even glared
Towards the sky lamenting his plight
The duo took a look for some clues in their book
And mutually both saw the light
For his small-minded gnashing of a minor re-hashing
The penance would have to be fitting
He would suffer more delays, traffic jams lasting days
Until he realized that he was just sitting.

The second file check, showed a rudderless wreck
Or at least that’s the story he using
Claims no friends or causes are worth all his pauses
Between his blind chase for acts self-abusing
He complains in loud mutter, “I’m heading straight for the gutter,
Unless some new cure is invented,
As I point the blame, but I can’t give His name
For my problem,” the innocent lamented.

The angels drew back, and thought twice of attack
To this pompous weak soul of a creature
The “problems” were his fault, as this was an insult
To blame them on his holy Teacher?
The issues were clearing and they grew tired of hearing
Of this self-aggrandized yapping machine
So they made a new note and took a quick vote
And created a solution unseen.

From this moment forward, when he was acting untoward
Oblivious to pronoun based fact
His voice would go higher, like a schoolgirl on fire
(As it would show his complete loss of tact)
The register would lower only after the horror 
Of realizing he was the driver
Of the consequenced choices, not spirit and voices
And stop blaming the holy MacGyver.

The evening was wrapped and their energy sapped
They headed straight up in a race
Irony it did seem, was a nice middle beam
As a consequence fitting that face
Metaphysical lessons would be replace all the guessing
Of roles above and below
The angels were tired but since newly hired
They knew it was on with the show.

After consulting together, they decided to tether 
From this moment on, everlasting
To strive to enlighten and discourage fighting 
Hyperbole and dogmatic fasting
Predictions are risky as human nature is frisky
With the tyrannically urgent arise
No harm is no foul, is the angelic call
As their efforts will cut down the size.

I am still working on this one: I hope to finish it soon.

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