Hell In Pitch-Black

 

Dissension from a recurring thought, 

delving deep in the dying rift, heuristic

follies his only accruement to this disease of

life, bargaining with an unknown time to his own

demise, what death conceals is pitch black, an 

achromic Hell, nothingness sees out, and nothingness 

sees in, no avenging angel tallies good from wrong, no

amnesty or reward for existing in this brume of septic lodge

of liberated thought, choking out the Jerusalem occult whence

misery flung her myths, endless bulwarks, battles, and refined and

recondensed fables, every lonesome creek, binding brook, and swelling 

river eventually flows into the sea of fiction, there in the sea of all reason

lies an anchor, bounded by lies and veiled as truth, where religion is the chain

and money is the ruler, steadfast in brutality and staunched with control, mankind

is forsaken by his conscience, far easier being a slave than a king, he has whittled

away from any bargain to himself, his identity, or his destiny. Dead, in pitch-black Hell.