Beyond the Pearly Gates you feel it:
gooseflesh in the nape of the neck,
just above your wings.
Someone is watching you.
It's not that they don't trust us, mind -
you got in, after all; St Peter doesn't make mistakes -
think of it as insurance. A swivelling, invisible Panopticon
that tracks and checks, ensuring rules are kept.
Enforcing love, it rolls across the lucky few
to make it in. It hunts for thought,
for sin.
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