There in the Pitfalls of Hell

November 24, 2009
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In the pit of the fire, a cold snow falls
The licking flames hiss up all around
And in the white-black change with the bleakest sound
I carve the name that I hear called.
With a splinted rib, a crackèd bone, a lock of hair
To bury there – There in the pitfalls of hell.

And the heart of my love I did haul
And I walked up above and I danced on the ground
But the ringing bells were the only sound.
The lying sound – for named none is called
From the voice of the saints, but the body itself.
To bury there – There in the pitfalls of hell.

I could take my fist and break the walls
But my bones were first broken, they lie on the ground.
I could cover my ears to cease the sound
Of that forsaken name which I hear called.
Can I give them away - the bones and the hair?
To bury there – There in the pitfalls of hell.

To the heart I hold go the needles of dolls
And I slowly, shaking, place the heart on the ground.
The name I heard whispered, yells now, loud.
I scream to block out the name I heard called.
Scarred and broken, ragged and torn,
I enter the stairwell, recently forlorn.
Allowing myself one last look down
At the bones and the hair
Buried there – There in the pitfalls of hell.





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