Entwined with weepers in the hollows,

Empty, bleeding souls.

The have-nots all are gathered here.

No light appears at noon,

No one approaches with a smile,

No dainties are enjoyed,

Hard labor is employed,

The Watcher stands, annoyed.

Insane arrivals scream with bellowed

Lungs of sulphur coals.

Brimstone feeds the fear.

No hope within this gloom,

No one has the strength to battle,

No weapons can be forged,

Within this crimson fort,

The Watcher holds his court.

Whippings for the never sleeping,

Beatings for the always weeping,

Bulging eyes tattooed with creeping

Worms with stinging tails.

The Watcher rings the bell:

Rigorous, pointless toil,

On hot, unyielding soil,

Above the boiling oil.

Long forgotten are the pleasured

Moments in the folds,

Composing carefree years.

No thoughts beyond the doom,

No one dares resist The Watcher,

No escape, penned up like cattle,

Flames erupt through crusty tallow,

We have fallen into shadow.

Copyright © 2008 Arley Owens, Jr. All Rights Reserved