His Blasphemy, He Says, Is Materially Important

His sordid sort of blasphemy,

in his convex mind, matters most;

well, he has little else to boast.

He thinks worlds move at his behest;

that he is not merely a guest

but, on this earth, he acts as host;

he struts, like a proprietor

of acreage spread thick with manure.
He thinks himself a Privileged One;

he thinks his bulbous head is crowned

with glittered jewels that ought to stun

all his admirers all around.

In Lake Fire, he will scorch and sear,

or twist upon a spit to roast.
His shrieks of agony none hear,

despite how loud and shrill the tone.
He writhes and squirms---in pain and fear

that he must be there all alone.



Author's Notes/Comments: 

On the basis of the old phrase, "misery loves company," I have speculated elsewhere that anyone condemned to Hell must feel absolutely alone there; for knowledge of another's presence would be, even there, a glimmer of comfort.  In Luke 16, the rich man did not seem to be aware of anyone else in Hell; companionship, even there, is contrary to its purpose and process.


I should like to thank William37Keith, whose iambic tetrameter, in his poem, "My Life Matters Most," inspired my own attempt in this verse form.



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