This is not the fancy and flight
of some long past Italian poet
This is the descriptive account
that you have written in my soul
There are no flames here
licking high and scorching the tormented
only cold clammy walls and prickly sweat
and the soundtrack of the whimpers of the damned
this is the place of heartbreaks
and suicides and this is home
there is no water that can parch this thirst
just the damp on the sweated stone
there is no Virgil to guide
and each here has been entombed
by cruelty and suffering
and the damnation of the not-yet-dead
no gods dare step or speak in these halls
where even they can fall to despair and melancholy
nothing grows but a bitter lichen
texture like ruin
and the scent of putrescence and blight
there is a gangrenous stench that
pervades this twilight gallery
and the mewling sobs of the accursed
as they pray for the cessation of suffering
for the forgotten and dispossessed
stripped and naked and shivering with resignation
the denizens of this place with no heart
or hope yield up to endless time.
There are a multitude here and all
answer to my name as well
as the ones they were born with
but none respond when called
There are no demons with whips
seeking tortuous delights
No interruption to this ceaseless monotony
of sorrow and mourning
With blunted eyes and anaemic pallor
we sit and moan
our troubles into this voided space
edgeless and infinite
Within the confines of this dank abyss
There is no escape to Elysian fields
nor rise to some lesser limbo
There is only regret and longing
and the dull endless wait for forever

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