Hells Mouth

Sliding through the narrow throat
Boiling blood a black hearts moat
Swallowed whole, with body complete
Forked tounge radiating white heat

Naively seduced to a fiendish trap
Entrapment from the demons lap
Keep not all your enemies close
Or soon ending up as an innocent dose

Wearing human skin as clothes
With webbed feet and claws as toes
Scattered screams of pain and hurt
Echoing laugh a monsters chirp

Acid spills tempting to erupt
Churning bodies in the fiery gut
Circle of life, destruction of death
Our souls now part of the devils breath.

Living Hell

The first draft of reflective imagery that invades my mind.

Sucked into an abyss of astronomical proportions, swirling downward feeling the heat on my feet. Relief would be to perish and never look back. But this would be too easy, they’d rather I suffocate in possession of the intrusive thoughts piercing my mind, leaving transparent holes of uncertainty and frozen whirlwinds harrowing at my reality and convictions.

 

Point the forks upwards, forcing the inside temptation to scream and surrender under the guilty burden, invisible shadows climbing on my back. The weight shrugs as a reminder not to proceed with the idea of liberation and freedom. It’s part of the torture, the false hope we feed on for survival is desired of course, but only left for balance, for sanity to stay before Hell is reached. Turning downward facing obscene flames which spit obscenities, hurting the soul and spouting the stench of foulness like a spike billowing the winds of heart strings.

Prying eyes look on as a devils intent. Look is a stab, a stab cutting the Flesh and swallowing entrails of red and gold. Flashes of yellow signals the explosion of the soul collapsing inward, shades of grey elope and revel in the mix of light. In my head a giant, but not necessary a tyrant, though the horns and hanging flesh give away past intentions, and deviance outgoings. Will his look spill towards me, igniting the hunger in the eyes. Or maybe I’ll be spared, increasing fear and anxiety of the soul. Part of the torment. Being flippant with lives. Being a false remorse, leering at me, the prey, the gift.

Spinning discs pass my neck with a flys width. Razors designated to maime and cause surrender. My face blanches, filling the bottle before it’s spilt…