The Harrowing of Hell

I imagine it began with unbroken black,

followed by flickers of light reflected on the walls

like golden flecks of candle-flame.

Creeping across the stones of the hazy halls,

the light seeped into the smoke and ignited the ghosts

who slithered from the floor like incense.

The rooms of the tomb now white as the Host,

the shadows shrank and huddled in the cracks

and shuddered at each approaching footstep.

In the Dwelling of Dagon

I imagine the discord of horror-film strings,

quiet then rising as the ark begins to glow.

Darkness starts to dwindle; the radiation grows

to cast half-dead light on Dagon, that ugly thing.

The scratching sound of rats' feet fills those riddled walls,

while fleas leave the dirty fur seeking human skin.

A pestilence then festers from that site of sin;

a bubonic burst mushrooms outward from those halls.

But for now, the city sleeps, its tumors unknown,

dormant, not yet blackening the beds of lovers.

As on Passover, the unseen reaper hovers,

sneaking his seeds into the marrow of their bones.

So, my child, when you kneel before the modern ark,

the tabernacle, make sure He is respected,

for He who heals you here is He who infected

that satanic city, that dwelling in the dark.

The Ruined

They would like to view themselves

as black holes, collapsed giants

bending the moral fabric

of space with a gravity

greater than before their fall.

But compared to the real Sun,

they are burnt-brown wisps of smoke

that float upward from candles,

writhe, warp, and then dissipate.