The South Of Hell
Somewhere down there just to the south of HellAn olde stone tower looms, it's great cracked bell pealing through the gloomy
Unrelenting, everlasting Night that reigns, pouring waves of dumb, mute blind things
In wasted, useless piles up to and over Days obscuring every little windowpane,
Myriad flocks of faces throng like drunken mites to tainted nectars busy buzzing for their sips
Crisping souls in searing seas of blank, eternal fires while quenching empty thirsts broken word lips,
All turn to repeat the meaningless praises, the phrases throng in shallow, vast electronic song
Our King, our gods will bring us things at last, (what could go wrong?)
On other worlds where spirits aspire to commune, bless and evolve
I guess they have forgotten what it is to have something to solve,
But here in the sere and daily fire where warped minds and mouths mimic wisdom to control
One wonders what the point and purpose is and questions scream such injustice without soul,
Designed to confine the masses whom dwell
Somewhere down there just to the south of Hell
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
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Written on 2013-11-04 at 14:52
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