I listen to guttural cries
Played lower that angelic choirs
I feel the burning of stygian fire
The pouring acidic rain
The mind can make a heaven of hell,
At least it’s what Milton says
Yet my mind can find no pleasure,
Not in so much pain.

And when pleasure is given to us,
Residents of this stygian plane,
It’s a switch to ice, of the needling vane
So fire turns to ice,
and for a moment relief is felt,
Until drops from Lethe avail themselves
Unmindful, we have forgotten to feel
Until the cycle repeats,
Once again breaking our wills

Oh, sorrow so deep
Woe, so unfathomable
The eternal,
The infernal,
Torture. oh so long,
this My Friend is a Purgotorian’s song


6 thoughts on “Purgatorian Song

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