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Spiritual Journeys #2
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Just need the finishing touches...
| Spiritual Journeys #2 |
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Just need the finishing touches... |
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davidmerriman Member
since 2003-04-30
Posts 123Dallas, TX |
This is, in my oppinion, the best poem I have written, and I've recently added a great deal to it. My editing is ALMOST complete; I have two things that I would request help on. They are in asterisks. But any comments or critique is greatly appreciated! Though it will be obvious when you read it, this poem is in Iambic Pentameter, and about an Atheist who goes to Christian Hell. --- Title Not Yet Devised Arranged in lines, us battered souls march on To undisclosed locations far away With nothing but the thought of how we've wronged; * Our backs are cracked like sunrays through the gray. We still march on, although we've failed the test. Now never will we know eternal rest. The judge and jury both decreed our guilt. Their shinning hands perused through endless books, And names were read, and hope began to wilt. And never did the judge grant us his looks, When finally, he closed the ancient text And cast our newborn souls into a hex. Now stench infests the air in which we breathe, And groans of death surround and swell the ear— Exploding throats of those who were deceived. The sights and sounds predict that Hell draws near. We watch the flames that lick and lap the shore, For lakes of phosphor burn forevermore. Magnesium in water that we drink Will burn down cold before you start to pour. With sight and smell, a taste of death and stink Surrounds this land of waste that I abhor. It fills our every sense like endless screams. Our cries are muffled—wake us from these dreams! Invisible piranhas swim in air. The current thick shall carry them adrift. And all we do is march, and march and stare And watch the fire in bellows rise and shift Across the ground to burn, incinerate Those privileged of souls outside Hell's Gate. Yes, Hell, and none of us will truly die. (Though we have all once tasted death before.) No rest, or peace, or place for us to lie. For if you halt, your fate will hold in store A shortcut to the torture that awaits: First pain, then death, then thrown into the Gates. And in that blur of evil dismal dark, Distinguished sights and sounds cannot be formed. I now recall of Heralds and their Hark, But never was this hidden God adorned. Salvation was too far away to sense; In Hell, now I will lie forever hence. Could I have seen His glory until now, Or known that words of men could mean so much? Could I believe the powers He endowed Those Holy men who's drivel was God's touch? Now looking back, it matters not—I'm cursed. In life I chose the dooms of logic first. And all these sights and sounds surround me whole, As if this open vastness closes in. I somehow feel his presence take its toll. Beelzebub, my master, lied within! If only I could rip open my chest Removing tar that lies within the flesh. And now I see my ever-beating heart That keeps my conscious touch from dying off. Why can't my soul and body finally part? For only blood exhales the breath I cough. My metaphysic torture seems so real As if my shell were not in dirt and steel. And damn that God to Hell with me, for He Created paradox in existence. The Universe was made to trick me! He Foresaw the apple and our torture hence. He made us, then sent us to the devil's lair! Salvation came to us men unaware! But now I open my perceiving eyes, My fate now resting in the devil's hands. I must accept those once deceiving lies, While God still hides away for men he damns. A coward, bastard, yet still in control Of me and of my poor, pathetic soul. --- * Either that line, or "The tribulation failed now weighs down strong" ** The last word, "existence" is not in meter. [This message has been edited by davidmerriman (08-31-2003 02:22 PM).] |
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