"hellward" poems
Sing, O Muse, of greed’s Inferno, fluorescent-fringed and frigid at the core;
of white-haired chiefs with square jaws and stiff-lined lips
whose speech came clipped and hollow like the towers
on whose upper reaches they sat like gods in clouds,
sealed from light by iron-toothed, two-footed dogs.
Sing of dark jagged lines tipping hellward like Abyss-sucked souls
whose eternal fall finds no bottom of either rest or termination;
of red numbers glowing like murderous stars in a flat-faced sky
whose blank, demonic edges rotate like knives dropping from heaven,
shifting but never changing; killing and never dying.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 12:36 AM UTC
Crooked paintings of sobbing angels pointed hellward, towards the earth
and the heat and all we deserve. And none of the mortals noticed them
weeping, noticed them writhing, noticed them falling, towards the
depths of a ***** soul, and they fell and never stopped doing so.
Yet as they let a wicked gravity pull their calloused feet, they
still believed they were on their way to wrong, leaving their
home. Of course, this makes sense, since the cruelest fae
and most twisted demons were always the one to
believe themselves holy. And so is told the tale;
Seven sins split hellward, going where they belonged: among humans.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC