Rhymes in Red: a collection of poems by D. W. Christian

The Malebolge

I face the eighth Infernal ring,

The ditches ten that hoard the frauds

Who lied to all and sowed discord

And made mistrust and doubt their gods.

This circle eighth below the earth

Where liars scream all void of bliss

Beyond the gates bereft of hope

Inside the fire walls of Dis.

I walk across the bridges ten

In searching for a certain shade.

She can't be far, for none escapes

The Hell in which your sins have made.

A lover past this spirit is

Or yet she played the part of one.

But holy she had faked to be -

Deceived us all when all was done.

And what a shrew and hag if she

Should say one thing and live not that -

To claim to know and love The Lord

Yet live the way that flesh begat.

These souls, they slowly rot away -

Ten thousand shades by death eclipsed.

She could be anywhere in this

Infernal sea of lying lips.

I find her here in number six;

Her leaden cloak impedes her tread.

The demons' whips are cracked upon

Her back and neck to march ahead.

I see the anguish in her eyes:

Perdition for eternity.

I see beyond the suffering

A face that once was dear to me.

Oh how I wish she were not here.

I wish she would be rid of it!

But lie to me and all you love

And so be damned a hypocrite.

A prison lacking lock or bars,

Yet ne'er again she'll see the stars.