Your good book couldn't save me as I saw the abyss,
Yet your rage, and fury and bile drew me to Hell,
And I saw that Hell is so subjective.
Looking down at a thousand souls screaming,
Writhing, drowning, dying,
I realised that they were all my own.
I looked back at a life battered,
Burned, scorched earth,
Filled with constant plagues that I hadn't earned.
I tried to reach for help – my sides, the sky, the ground,
But there was no voice from above, nobody beside me, and no ground below me,
I just hovered in stasis.
Is this your 'purgatory'?
I doubt it, because that's how I'd describe my life;
Just one bitter, broken period of waiting for something every worse.
Every emotional floor, cracking bones like cracking thunder,
Heart shattered by lightning, eyes torn out as pennance,
It was all so ******* biblical.
For more of my poetry, please visit: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Matthew-Barnes/e/B07BYSKPWH/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_5?qid=1533800178&sr=8-5
