No Life is Meaningless

December 29, 2011
By juliannap.327 BRONZE, Hartsdale, New York
juliannap.327 BRONZE, Hartsdale, New York
2 articles 0 photos 0 comments

My sweet guide, who shows me the light
when I am in the dark, surrounded by fear,
whose strength and bravery give me mite,

I ask you this, what is that cringing noise I hear?”
And he to me, “ That is the sound of the suffering of those
who slaughtered a face before it shed a tear.”

And from those words I swear I froze,
for such a horrid idea, is too much to bear .
That this is the choice someone could choose,

But who could have such a low level of care?
Who could question the gift of life He gave them?
Who could take a beautiful piece of silk and begin to tare

at every soft seem and every precious hem.
As if it were a piece of nothing,
when its sweet innocence was worthy to be worn by Him.

I needed to end the practice of such a thing.
And remembered it was impossible, but I still felt glee
once I remembered everything.

The evildoers were in Hell, paying the fee
that they owe to their unborn children.
I remembered that He would let none go free.

That the punishment inflicted upon these women,
whose morals were all tangled up in
their webs of greed and self indulgence, was the worst. Amen.

I walked behind my lionhearted companion,
whose will and brawn I admired terrifically,
all the while wondering about what I would see happen.

We reached the door, and were greeted brusquely
by a smell so strong it was nearly a taste.
My stomach churned, my knees became weary,

For the scent of burning flesh suffocates
the mind, it is a horrible scent I will never forget.
As well as the sight I saw, it forever contaminates

my thoughts. Before me, a never ending line of the bereft
of concern for their aborted offspring stretched the vicinity.
Waiting their turn, with anything but acquiesce.

Thousands of birdcages were filled with the guilty.
The woman in front of the line got trapped in,
then dropped into the basin of sulfuric acid, and everything filthy.

Once their skin was no more, their bones pervaded a wasteland.
Where their souls were forced to linger blindly, searching
for their bodies. But with solely cadavers they were damned.

Still to me this is not enough scourging,
souls in the eleventh circle of hell deserve more despair,
more suffering, hurting and torturing,

For taking a life off its path before getting anywhere,
For cracking the egg just before hatching,
The happening of justice is just too rare.

But I can’t bring justice; I am no William Tell.
I leave you with my description of the last circle of Hell.

The author's comments:
This is a school project I wrote. The project was to write my own Canto in the style of Terza Rima, like in Dante Aligheri's, "Inferno".

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.


MacMillan Books

Aspiring Writer? Take Our Online Course!