Midnight Moon's Harp [Poetic Prose; date: 6/6/2006] Immersed in deadness, in a solar system without grace: incased in an orbit like prison: harvesting mounds of dusty crypts: century after century, here resides Earth's moon. I heard the sound of doom one evening: its, resonance, hum (like a grief-stricken harp): it was the moon: moaning, oozing, melting the only grace God gave it: a portion of the sun's light: feeble as it was, it was, far-scattered on this twisting, airless shadowy sphere"trying to absorb each cramped beam from the beaming orb. #1368 6/6/06 The Birth of Hell [Poetic Prose: Hell's Creation] God knew there would be heresy and impiety (contrary to his teachings; his likings, when he created the living)"but he did not ponder these crimes: the allure to the dark-divinity he allowed: even to living souls, a glance in the depthless abyss, why not? Everyone needs a home, do they not? Yet He did not peer from the light downward to Hell's iron gates; He was perhaps dizzy from looking downward to the immeasurable sins of mankind, which were taking place on the surface of planet earth, that was enough, I gather; beneath its crust, would be way too much. Now that Hell was created, found and formed (by its four-fathers), the wreckage of antiquity, those lost faces, phantoms of chaos: allowed to remained formed so all would recognize each other, and their utterly fading time and place. Perhaps now God said, "Beneath me, not above me, build your castle as you wish I will send you all the wreckage, do your everlasting incantations, your chaos, invade your own creation, why should I make you another home. Make your own." And so it was, the birth of Hell. #1369 6/6/2006 |
