DOWN BOY

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HADES | MISTAH J AIN'T GOT NOTHING ON MY TWISTED WAYS, I'LL SHOW YOU WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A LIVING HELL.

     breath curls around your head
     like acrid smoke,
     the fundamental sign of life
     that chokes and screams
     of death itself,
     emanating from blackened
     bloody lips that twist
     into a snarl,
     a villainous seduction,
     as he snuffs his cigarette out
     on the pulse point
     of your neck;
     a kiss of death.

     centuries of hero complexed
     storytellers have warped his
     gentle, dark existence
     into one of gluttonous villainy,
     and he's never been one
     to back down from
     a challenge.
     souls depart this world
     to enter his and
     scream eternally for
     release;
     the shredding of lungs
     and bursting of hearts
     as they shriek,
     begging, pleading,
     for mercy from the
     puppet strings hooked
     beneath their arms
     as he pulls and pushes
     and cackles out
     his suffering.

     the hellhound at his doorway
     is but a glimpse
     of things to come,
     the trio of heads
     stained pitch dark
     and scorched with fire,
     rows of teeth shining crimson
     in mouths that howl
     and devour the souls
     that find no repentance
     hidden in those ghastly
     yellow eyes.

     the same malicious squint
     is carved in the
     cracked marble face
     of its master,
     and he makes sure
     every last wretched fool
     watches their reflection
     in the glassy pits
     of his eyes
     as he throws them into
     tartarus.
     (do not fear the depths,
     child, for it is the
     only escape;
     better eternal damnation
     in the fiery pits
     than eternal suffering
     under that twisted grin.)

     and yet deep beneath
     those sanguine snarls
     and hands carved from bone,
     there lies a dormant
     seed of something like
     goodness,
     of cleansing the rot
     from under his eyes
     and shedding the
     cloak and dagger.
     because when winter falls
     on earthy pastures
     his one true love returns,
     and his tyranny is halted—
     only to be replaced by hers.
     they're a deadly pair,
     a perfect match,
     two halves of the
     same crumbling skull.
     blood like molten lava
     slips through their
     fingertips,
     eyes alighted
     by those drowned
     in waves of suffering;
     together,
     they raise hell.

     but alone,
     oh alone,
     he creates it.

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⏰ Last updated: Jul 28, 2017 ⏰

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