In The Bowels of Hell

 Fools will never become heroes. Heroes fall like bad apples and suck on the breasts of decaying dogs.

Opened wounds write my mind.  Through the ages wisdom boils in cosmos meant for infinity. Stones stepped over wash away under a crashing tide.  Yet here I sit among maggot infested faces without a hand to hold or a name of my own.

--in the house that drips blood--

I listen to midnight chimes.  As its plague surges on through my soul, I ignite human lanterns. Black magic rites resurrect the devil's muse.  This I imagined as truth though memories are foreign to me for I have none.

Chills cascade throughout constricting binds. Racing towards something, it pounds in my chest. Like needles fear buries itself within these enclosing walls. Death is but a fear far too complicated to bargain with. Programmed with end, we all succumb to its eternal kiss. Crippled by a disease my body created, I spiral ever more towards the grave. Treasure I hold onto keeps me fighting. A blessing is all I need to see this through. I might reach into a pocket full of miracles and pull out belief. Seldom are the skies clear. Now as I gaze toward the approach of malevolence I see only clouds.

Needles pierce pulsing meat as gloved fingers press the plunger. Rusty liquid corrodes arteries while a gagged mouth continues to scream. Eyes dance wildly inside a splitting skull as a raven swoops in to peck a wrinkled pink ball. Unfolded instruments sparkle beneath swinging light. Their pointy ends are dull yet effective as they work to erase the plague called life from just another mindless drone.

Yes, but when?  As the vision expired so did the death's stench. 

--torn angel wings glide--

In a septic whirlpool of emotion I drown. All I ever wanted was to survive myself, but how do I know that?  Today is...I think I have lost track of days, night, weeks and months, but regardless of that fact darkness overwhelms me. It feasts on my soul, assuming I still have one but then again it might have been all used up by now. I would think I would feel it there. I feel empty though. I feel used up.

People believe hell is all about fire and brimstone. The secret is: Hell is whatever you make it. Of course if fire and brimstone is your utmost revolving fear then I suppose that is what you will be stewing in for all eternity however, not necessarily so. You see the human mind is an elaborate maze of fears and expectations. Once you arrive here it may take on a whole other universe and subject you to various horrors you never thought possible.

But do I reside among the damned?

--always--