I just received this poem from my friend Dennis. This was written in May, 1994. He had two conditions to my posting it and I hope that I have successfully met those. - poetheart 08/08/00
Injecting his aorta with the toxic fluids of the sinister Lake of Fire,
he considers crawling to a remote outlet for what he believes will offer mercy
from the incineration.He scrapes his hands and knees along the jagged surface,
hitting his head against the cave walls dripping with heated blood,
making his way through the strips of burning flesh and grasping hands,
the human garbage.But no relief awaits him as he enters the dark alcove,
hoping to soon succumb to the rotting plasma pervading his veins,
the drug he drank from the Sea of Flames.His only comfort is the increasing temperatures and the remains
of the perishing living he uses as his pillow.
Grief and remorse are his only company,
as he recalls previously observing his fallen associates and the third
devastation of the seven plagues."Forgive me!" his cries keep repeating, "Why didn't I accept the Truth?"
But his useless moans are only heard by the Angel of Darkness,
who used to wickedly laugh because he belonged to him,
but who now suffers because of his own abhorrence and renouncement.His futile sorrow is only drowned within the distant weeping of the thousands,
and he will be eternally addicted to the heroin of Lucifer.
© May 1994 by Dennis Failla