Melancholia

by Will Mayo

I dwell in a land of hound and mist
where whispers haunt the castle
and sightless sounds are known to man.
Where Satan hones the trumpet
That Gabriel does not dare blow.
The Lord awaits,
but answers does he not.
Deep pits, lined with smoke,
stretch across the horizon
that does not end.
Every known sin and vice
is passed along the collection plate
of smoke and mirror and shroud,
and dined on in a feast
that even the saints would envy.
In the end, no name is given to this place.
Rather, all dwell on
in the silence of the scream
in the hope that memory would soon be forgot.

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