A Hellish Heaven

Has it really been so long,

since last I heard a voice,

Or spoke or listened,

Or even had the choice?

And why, I ask, do I still feel tears,

Softly down my cheeks,

A never ending flow,

Of bitter, anguished weeps?

Why can I not recall the sound,

of wind in the trees,

or the faint touch,

of a child on my sleeve?

Allow me to explain.

Although now I have no name,

I was once a man of fame,

The master of my game.

A businessman rising,

Never compromising,

Always devising,

New ways of surprising.

Until that day,

When someone got in my way,

And I decided to lay,

The trap of hearsay.

And from that moment the spiral descended,

I backstabbed and murdered to meet my ends,

And out of that wound that could never be mended,

The poison seeped of a bid for revenge.

A simple explosion and my life was ended,

And few were those who needed to cry,

And my family that I long had defended,

Were driven to beg on the streets to survive.

But my crimes in life,

So unspeakably dark,

Would seem to some like the laugh of a lark,

Were they to see but a taste,

Of the punishment that lay ahead.

And out of the morgue,

Where my mangled remains,

Were left in a near universal disdain,

My spirit was torn by a wraith,

known to me only as dread.

And so it was,

In a sad little boat,

With others as wretched as me,

My spirit was borne by the Demon of Dread,

To a place from which none can flee.

Hell is not,

As some might imagine,

Frozen to the lowest degree,

Nor was it lava to which I was led,

But the base of a twisted tree.

A tree which,

As I understand it,

Was enchanted to allow me to see,

The bitterness of a child forced to beg,

From the tender age of three.

A child and a wife that I left behind,

The remains of a life that I wish I could find,

I caused so much strife in that little time,

That I wish I could regain.

And for one hundred years I was forced to watch,

Coins drop like tears in a begging box,

The Devil’s jeers could never be stopped,

When my child cursed my name.

And those silent puppeteers,

Those calculating engineers,

Of all my punishment.

They took me to one thousand Hells,

When I heard the funeral bells,

Of my last descendent.

And though I may have often wondered,

If they enjoyed the mind they sundered,

I feel it was deserved.

Perhaps this feeling came from me,

A regret for the fate of my family,

So my conscience could purged.

Yet now I love my pain,

For it shows me all how vain,

My actions were in life,

How I was as a knife,

Always doing harm,

Always slicing the arm,

That helped me.

I sit in torture for my sins and wonder if it is not best,

Maybe I have found my rest,

In not forgiving.

I feel that I love my hate of my past atrocities,

And now I bend upon my knees,

Thanking all the gods for forgiving and for giving me my Hellish Heaven.

Benedict Hardy 10X