The Heights of Hell

The Heights of Hell

The precipice of fire

The blistering boil breaching through
The tempest of the storm
Vast, the vault of stress into
The purest fire form
No scar of scorch, Its wake is none
No ash by torch, It burns the sun
And if solar skies could sing a tune
By thunder it is born

Sear and burn, the monikers short
No name could hold the rage
A bursting bell, a tidal-breach port
Not enough ink there for the page

If twisters and maelstroms knew the spin
If in their name they told of whirl
Never a distance could they dip in
No greater speed could hurl

Beyond the instant and past the light
Past and future were too slow
No temple greater than the night
Could encase the blight and glow

Death's deport: a true decay
And all the woes of may
Couldn't desist what held the wrist
To manifest this way

Many and mighty, these echoes cry
Legend and myth: true born the sky
And even sight is blind to see
What constructed Hell inside of me