PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Despite how high these tidal flames can leap,

the light over this seething lake still seems

a shadow of itself and rather dim;

unlike this unspeakable agony

in which I sear, and roast, and baste and broil

worse than the pain of an infected boil

increased ten thousand fold upon my skin:

no opportunity to rest or sleep;

no brief escape in, say, erotic dreams.

This depth into which I have been unfairly slammed

is populated by all the God-damned.

I would not have thought that this could have been:

I have always been a firm atheist---

which made me a first ranking communist.

Yurovsky must be here.  I long to speak to him

if only for a moment's respite from

these ghastly pains that multiply in sum

wildly, not being bound by time or space

(for such do not apply in this dread place).

This lake, Lake fire, stifles all cries to silence

while on our living bodies wreaking violence

like torches of a blazing torture ceaselessly

applied.  We ever burn, but not to ashes;

and every second brings millions of lashes,

of leaping, biting, tearing, scorching flames

on us---to haughty to admit our shames.

I know I am not, but I feel, alone

without the least of humane company;

always sinking further, like some millstone.

All sounds are muffled---suffocated---

as I am even further innundated.

I know I shall not hear Yurovsky's screams;

I guess I only have ears for my own.

Starward