Ascending to the second layer,
a stench of nauseating breath
expands across the zephyr.
I attempt to avoid a cough
and the opaque fog thickens
as we reach an abrupt drop-off.
Depicted below are frantic beings
who have only the remembrance of
anxiety, torment, and panicked feelings
hiding amongst the remaining rubble
in a soft whisper they beg for mercy,
neglecting against their fatal,
violent destruction on the vitality of the innocent.
The scent swells to an intense sickening
along with the dryness of incalescence.
A low growl begins to rise!
Traveling across the infinite distance,
a foul creature comes to brutalize.
The petrified beings cower in their hideouts
and I hold my breath carefully as
three giant, damp, and cold snouts
emerge from the heavy smog.
A rush of frigid wind washes over
and I come to realize, it is the Watchdog.
One risks a dangerous error
in the act of running to the void, but
the motion distracts the devious hunter.
He strikes and pins the immoral,
viciously tearing the flesh to pieces.
Finally, taking him in the muzzle
Cerberus violently tosses the limp body
for it no longer contains value nor interest.
And I ask my Lover very faintly:
“What becomes of the one enduring torture?”
And he, nonchalantly: “Don’t worry, my dearest.
They have yet to regain their composure.”
As we escape from the horror below
to the unknown exceeding cruel,
the dying mortal begins to regrow.
