The Old Gods wander
your promised lands
with reticence.
Grey, forced benevolence.
They shrug their crumpled robes,
extend in veinous hand
black cornucopia.
You're fighting back, it's evident,
bony protrusions, a thumping chest,
the clamming up of sweaty pearls.
They aim at your Olympian head.
There, in the meadows of your mind,
grazing on dewy hurt,
they defecate a premonition
of impending doom.
**
The descent into hell begins.
Please fasten your seat belts
Over decrepit bones.
Direct your sockets
Heavenwards,
Not into your phones.
Fear not the demons,
The fiery cauldrons,
As you are already dead.
Dread only your fellow passengers
On the road ahead.
There is no return ticket
On this hellish ride.
Only the smoldering memories
Of your haunted pride.