I recite scriptures in cemeteries,
persuading the fallen to follow the path to my chambers.
I sing them hymns of what I claim to be mine
as I hide my blood stained gums,
they kick and scream with lead legs
so I take their palms and drag them
through the storm.
Some get dismantled from the socket.
Only they can fix them.
Their bodies starved and withered
as we enter the eye of the storm,
the eye of God.
We have arrived in hell,
enclosed by tornadoes and hurricanes.
Hush now, you must keep my words secret
for there are worse things on Earth
than dying in my arms.
I watch every one of them drop
six feet below.
I could choose to leave them buried,
give them to the maggots,
But instead I carry them through the inferno.
They mustn’t walk alone.
Walk with me to the afterlife.
They must die through what I died through.
They are all casualties to me,
no longer humans.
I don’t know their names.
If they speak them I am deaf.
Cries are frequent but never heard,
I was an angel once, of my own,
but now I spend my days
designing the darkness that is here.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to do this.
But I crossed coals for my mistakes
so they must fight the fire
just as I did.
I was alone for years
in the eye of the storm,
in the eye of God,
I became the first to claim the agony of sin.
I saw everything through his eyes.
Perspective is an interesting thing.
I created this place out of
loneliness and self-destruction.
I made the everlasting storm.
But I cannot control how the victims survive here.
I constructed the room,
and they must build the atmosphere.
I am only the transporter from
grave to final destination.
They must relive and realize their wrongs
through the lense of his irises.
You cannot crawl under the sheets
during the thunder when you live here.
Maybe through the eye
they will be able to see clearly,
but muddy waters are often
and rationality is masked under emotion.
I carry them to the calmness,
but the tragedy of hell is that
most decide to walk back into