Reaching the illusory heaven

Is no more than counting steps to seven

Lifetimes ebb, arguing which foot lands each step

A few strides won’t do when lost in the treeless steppe

The arms may swing, but the legs won’t move

It’s a struggle when there’s something left to prove

The clock decides when the house is sold

And the attic emptied of its gold

When the mind gladly withers

No more a preening bird displaying feathers

The doorbell need not ring

It’s drowned out by a thunderous wellspring

Heaven is quiet, the ears may be left behind

Even the eyes, ornaments that render us blind

What can we take? Everything is already there

Steps disappear when we walk in as the rightful heir