Decaying memories etched into forbidden steps,
essence of sorrow seeping from torn wall coverings.
Flakes of death, drawn in through every breath.
Oh, but for the doom of glory stands here a man with a million stories.
Beelzebub whispers a melody of forgotten hues,
iridescent magnitude a walk within his shoes.
Black mist snakes the war torn ground,
but for the treason his honor has found.
Cackles of ancient lips of the night,
squeals of sheer delight,
they come for you,
they come for your soul.
They’ve run their poisoned tongues along
the essence at your core
have feast upon your blood,
a chemical infusion of darkness,
they need more.
Poor ensanguined soul your spillage misses
the holy grail cup and hits instead upon the piss stained floor.
Hear now the thudding of an ogres feet as he traipses
the dark and gloomy hallways of eternity,
singing the soft lullaby of torture.
Do you hear him? In the dead of night
deep within the shadows his howl
penetrates the dark…
he is coming for his uncollected soul.
Karen Hayward ©2016 (image and words)