Tuesday, May 20, 2008


Fearing the Devil's wrath
I run for Heaven's door,
solid and strong,
oak encased in iron.

I pound and I claw
til my fingers bleed red,
staining the oak, soaking the floor.

At once, I break through,
falling to my knees in gratitude
and I look upon the heavenly throne.
To my horror, He laughs at me,
just laughs like a madman.

And in my sorrow and my shame,
I crawl on bloodied hands
out the door, down the stairs,
back into the Pit.


Quackster said...

The imagery that you portray is striking, straightforward and sorrowful.

silent storm said...

It's ironic how we put people in pedestals only to realize later that they can never really be the person we have foolishly deified.

*** (All poems re-posted / pls. see links to view the original authors/publishers)