The Damned


The flames lick with an insatiable hunger,
caressing the trembling bodies with
a burning desire, a hungering flesh-lust.
Screams of the damned echo off the torched,
blackened wall of the death pit.

Sobs of the desolate are drowned
beneath the deafening roar of hissing fire.
Tears streaming from their cheeks; flowing rivers
of pain and hopelessness, are transformed
in an instant into scorching puffs of acid
steam, rising mercilessly to scald their
guilt-laden eyes.

In the acrid smoke-filled antechamber,
a hollow, mocking laugh belches forth,
washing over this pathetic symphony
of suffering.

The cries of the cursed abate,
knowing, not in thought, but in pain
that all that has preceded their
meaningless existence before now
is nothing more than an erotic appetizer,
whetting the ravenous hunger of
some dark, malevolent entity
lurking in the shadows of their
waning consciousness.

“You are mine,” It whispers in a voice
which chills, despite the ocean of flame
surrounding it.

“We are Yours,” they answer, with a
wisdom borne of relentless mourning.

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