Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nov 2018
Hell is with us. In our hearts and in our hands.

I don’t know what is in my head, but there are pictures whirling, images dragged up from far away, from places I have never been, and darkness that presses in hungrily to consume the soul of all humanity.
In me there is a foothold. God! In even me a grasping hand able to wield the knife and divide my soul from itself and laugh. To dance around the fire wherein the bones of my victims burn. God, the horror! Flitting shadows, creeping faces, a shuddering crawl because I cannot run.
But of course, if my legs are cut how could I run. There is no hope, but blood and death and horror and laughing faces asking for new dissections.
My body a cocoon of fire around my heart, pulsing out in the open, literally. My chest is torn open, carefully peeled back and my body a spectacle. There is no redemption in this grotesquery. This madness filled with the devils of hell themselves. They gloat over me, reeling drunk upon my destruction and the utter shriveling of the souls who dance around me. I am fighting my own demons not to burst into a million tiny seconds of my life, like shards of glass shatter under too much pressure, a flitting signal in the night like a light snuffed out by wolves. Slavering jowls, moist breath pressed unwilling against cold flesh, and a knife’s blade sliding, gliding through the pathways of my life’s story. Veins emptied of their proper element. Pried open.
"Lay them bear!
Let us see the very soul of you - the inside of those veins. Let us dare to go where no man has ever gone before. To do what no man has ever dared to do. To brave the depths of hell for the satisfaction of knowing that at last we have done something new, something that no one will ever have the bravery, the courage, and dastardly faith to do in a hundred years."
No god was there in that room, only the screaming devils of hell in all the world about us, laughing, laughing at the misery we make for ourselves, the utter torment into which we flee to tear our own souls apart beyond the light of day. There is nothing that we can do to stop them. They are all around us in the night, and in the shadows they are lurking, creeping, whispering. Let them come into your soul, they only want to play a little, gleefully singing the songs of the ******. They are not the ones you have to fear. It is the old devils, the ones who are still insatiably hungry, that you have to worry about. They say they're just here to have fun. But, oh you poor deluded soul, don't you know the fun they call is ******? The messengers they are is death’s own hand, the scythe-wielding master of the times of tombs and all things. By the way, its midnight. Don’t you see the clock? You hear the ticking. They are coming closer, ever closer. Don’t deny it. You know that they are here, it’s true, it’s true. You felt their breath late at night breathing down the back of your neck’s soul.

Hell is with us. In our hearts and in our hands.
Written by
md-writer  M/Ohio
Please log in to view and add comments on poems