Heaven’s Hell

The ink within white sheets are blood in their eyes,

As wounded I’m not but bleeding to death,

As small I am better than now when I’m worse,

And livelier world in heavenly curse;

Now critical aims in burning abode

As footprints no more, no walking in gold

But traces of blurry whispering soul

Without a promise of walking in fold;

No, no grief, no swelling remorse

No meeting of something absurd to behold

A hope nonexistent exists in their souls

Curse in their hearts they don’t think to have sown;

But no, bitter fruits they insist I will not

Succumb to some passions when misunderstand

They do, my words as demonic verses

In poetic curse that deviled my hand.