At times I feel like Dante, but I've lost the grip of Virgil.
Walking through fire and slipping on ice.
The screaming, oh the screaming...
A world of swirling matter that gave itself a god.

He sits on golden throne tossing paycheck after paycheck,  
but never enough to be anything more than than a slave...
crawling back for more.

He grins while bodies buried in ice whimper.
This world of color through eyes dimmed by avarice and time
blends to a world of solid grey.
We stumble through the fog.
This is our world.
This is inferno.



...but it's never too late to turn around...