We scream to the heavens

and plead with the pit

below…

…but I find no solace

in either, death in paradise, life

in purgatory, Milton thanks me

for the memory but I have no

recollection of his face,

I can never be brave enough

to light his candle and see

the reflection of pain

and madness in copperplate grind, production and feel

damns our day, in memory, in shadows, in shadows…

…whisper goodbye and good purchase

for your songs, for your psalms…

…whisper

goodbye for your tune is flat, whisper in the wind,

whisper to the end of times…

…then when time ticks on

inevitably to the roar of furnaces stoked

and mountains crumbling as drifts become chasms

and fill with water, a gossip of sea and foam at first

but then the rage of ocean opinion

crashes down upon and around your head,

making it difficult to breathe…

…struggling to breathe…

…clawing for air…

…mistaking lead pencils for straws

and death comes quick

night after night, the same struggles and harm,

the same disease of listening, of hearing

and smiling to the heavens for help,

but knowing…

…between breaths, that Hell awaits.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018