Stony suns engraved in rocky darkness,
the cogs of the underworld turn:
He paper-cuts his thumb at work.
The tiny slash stings red,
a small nuisance.
The cogs turn faster:
though the cheesy pizza was good,
his chest gurgles and tightens with acid,
shortening his breathing,
his hand clutching his chest.
The cogs turn faster still:
he aims poorly off the snowy slope
and cracks the joint and bone.
The pain waves his flesh,
making him yell in agony.
He flails his hands around the V-shaped leg.
The cogs turn even faster;
he’s lost his ten year job,
minor mishap caused it, would you know?
and now mental pressure
squeezes his eyes towards the poor street.
He’s running out of money.
The cogs spin rapidly in the black:
his wife leaves him, taking the kids too.
And while he lies on the floor,
the demons of his past taunting him,
tears try to redeem his purpose.
But the angels tread far from him.
The cogs turn his life away,
their brutal turning he can’t endure.
Yet his spirit endured the body.
Now he sees the underworld clearly.
And shrieks. And screams. And howls,
His renewed flesh devoured by three-headed teeth.
For him, and the unfortunate others,
the cogs of the underworld turn and turn and turn,
a silver speed as fast as eternity.