Burning Up Cinders

Chains hang from the ceiling,

Mimicking shadows as they dangle.

They oxidize,

Decaying,

Adding to the heightening smell of blood and mortality.

She screams out in the night,

Bleeding dreams haunt as a plague...

There is no one to comfort her,

She is only greeted by the face of torture,

While peril rides through the night upon black wings,

That flow like silk and poison like opium.

Be wary as the pine wood blackened,

Fading into the night like when one sleeps,

Only the black pine does not have dreams to hold on to,

Crumbling with ancient grains of sand,

 Washed up upon a lake of blood...

There the sand is formed of crushed and windswept bones,

Human bones...

Bones from which flesh was peeled away by the suspended chains.

And now the chains melt,

Becoming a thick, wet dust,

See it descend like snow?

Angels damn it as it falls,

Plummeting into the chasm,

Consumed by peril,

Together the go up in flames as they come to a screeching halt,

Frozen in time for a single second,

A second wasted on menace,

That wasted itself on nobodies,

Who would have been about nothing in this world,

A hell dimension,

A place of mortals,

And dust turns to miniscule cinders,

Falling through a time zone,

Cascading onto innocents,

Listen as their hearts slow in their sleep,

They won't remember how they died,

It only took a worthless bit of the soon-to-be-ended history of this universe.

And so dead trees creak,

Hearts stop,

Hearts begin,

Grace and life is taken away,

You are given a empty grave.

It will soon smell of rotten blood.

Souls fall into the void of despair,

Following the fate of peril.

All is deadened.

The bugs have ended their lamentation.