Hell (Save a Seat)
The road curved downward, cobblestones slick with old betrayals,
And every step recalled by the sulfurous heat beneath.I have tasted the night,
bitten back mercy, fed off my own denials,
And now the gates flare open wide with a welcome sharp as teeth.Smoke
rises in slow ribbons, thick as every lie I told to keep from breaking,
Ash clings to my tongue, the memory of prayers I never meant,
There’s no innocence, not here, not with these scars aching,
Only a final invitation—Hell’s arms, patient, spent.No golden city at my horizon,
no forgiveness hanging overhead,
Just the certainty of my own undoing, a ledger never bled.I walk forward,
stripped of legend, unburdened by disguise,
Entering a kingdom where shame is burned out of every set of eyes.
Save a seat, among the firelit throng,
Where the damned sit shoulder to shoulder,
ancient and strong.Let me share the table with thieves, the heretics,
the damned and bold,
Where stories are bartered for wounds,
and regrets are bought and sold.There is no
judgment here—just the honesty of hunger,
Flesh blistered raw, the currency of longing and anger.Let the flames curl upward,
a curtain of undressed sin,
We drink the dark together, ash-stained mouths grinning within.
I have played my games beneath indifferent gods,
Bet my soul on broken promises, wagered in the odds.I have knelt to nothing,
loved for pleasure, cursed for spite,
Lit a thousand matches in the dark to keep from facing night.Here,
debts collect with interest, memory is measured out in scars,
Names are nothing, just echoes lost to the howl of burning
stars.The truth is laid bare, no sanctuary in regret,
Only the comfort of others who understand what you can’t forget.
Let the gates clang shut behind me—no white light,
no song—I was never built for repentance;
I was never meant to belong.Let Cerberus snarl, let the imps tally my days,
I’ll take my number, stand in line, and count the waysI failed, I sinned,
I clawed for things I never kept,
Let the flames run their fingers over everything I’ve wept.Here,
the currency is pain, but there’s freedom in the fire,
No need for penance, no pretense, no thin, frightened choir.
I know the rumors: the lakes of pitch, the moaning walls,
But I have lived through worse,
and never answered calls.Let the devils offer torment, let the pitchforks gleam,
I have carried worse inside me—shame that split each dream.Here,
in the red-lit banquet, we pass the cup around,
Raise a toast to broken bodies,
to joys that can’t be found.Hell isn’t horror—it’s the final, honest feast,
Where all the exiles gather, each a former priest.
Who sits beside me? A king, stripped to bone and ash,
A lover who burned too hot, a liar caught in his own flash.There are mothers
who let their children starve for pride,
And poets who watched whole cities burn and never cried.We share our stories,
wounds exposed, unvarnished by remorse,
Confession is currency—truth the only force.Let the fire consume the fiction,
let the embers rise and fade,
Hell is just the sum of what every soul has made.
No bargains here, no devils offering release,
Just the long acceptance of what will never cease.I take my seat,
marked by my history and lust,
No gods will visit, no miracles, no trust.I am the echo of every wrong,
the survivor of my shame,
And if Hell is home for the honest, then I claim my name.
Let the flames rise higher, paint my skin with red,I walk in with eyes open,
I’ve already bled.I will not beg, will not run,
will not recant the pain—Every moment earned,
every scar remains.This is not punishment, not exile,
not fate—It’s the party for those who learned too late.
Save a seat for the ones who know their own scars,
For the lovers, the killers, the wishers on falling stars.Hell isn’t empty,
it’s alive and awake,
It’s the place where the lost gather,
unashamed of the stakes.We laugh in the flames, we weep, we burn,
And wear our stories until the ashes churn.I’ll take my place,
I’ve paid the toll—Save me a seat in Hell, where I can finally feel whole.
And when the fire dies low, when the last voice has spoken,We’ll know there’s peace in the knowledge that nothing is broken.The gates may never open, the gods may never call—But we are the ones who remain,
unafraid of the fall.Let the world above forget,
let the heavens close tight—We built our own kingdom out of hunger
and spite.So save me a seat in the red-lit hall—I’ll make my mark,
and I’ll answer the call.
Let the darkness claim me, let the flames embrace,I’ll wear my ashes with a grin on my
face.For I am the shadow, the echo, the scar—Save me a seat in Hell,
whoever you are.
Purgatory (Where Do We Go from Here?)
There is a hush in the marrow, a hush thicker than bone,
An endless corridor between what’s claimed and what’s unknown.No angels,
no horned sentries, only this gray, unmoving tide—Where souls spiral in fog,
unsure of the cost to decide.Shadows drag, ankle-deep,
across memory’s flooded plain,
Every regret a chain that won’t break,
only lengthen its claim.The air is sour with prayers half-swallowed and confessions
that never took root,
While silence gnaws at the nerves, and eternity replays its slow dispute.
I wander these hallways where the clocks are cracked,
Where every second drips backwards, and time doubles back.Faces float past,
blurred by sorrow, lips moving in private apology—Each syllable repeats,
caught in a feedback loop of unfinished apology.No destination mapped,
no signs to follow, only circles worn in the stone,
Where every echo’s a riddle and every answer is never quite
known.We are pilgrims of the unfinished, ghosts addicted to guilt,
Caught between verdict and forgiveness, lost in the walls we built.
Where do we go from here, under this bruised and breathless sky,
Where the promise of judgment lingers,
but the punishment never arrives?No heaven’s shining gate,
no devil’s laughter in the gloom—Just the hiss of lost desire,
and the rot of potential left to consume.Here,
desire is currency that pays for nothing, just spins,
A wasteland of want, where the wages of sin are to never
begin.Every path folds back on itself, every exit an illusion,
While hope is a fever that ebbs, always promising absolution.
Hands bleed from the effort of shaping apology from smoke,Mouths repeat old pleas,
each syllable another yoke.Did the world above forget us,
or is forgetting the price?Is this the waiting room for redemption,
or the last roll of the dice?Love, once a bright blade,
dulls to a memory’s ache—Compassion slips through the fingers,
as regrets rise in its wake.Forgiveness is rumored to drift these halls,
unseen but believed,But the rules here are unwritten,
the endings never relieved.
Is this penance, or is this inertia with a name?Are these faces punishment,
or just victims of the same?I look for a light in this endless grey expanse,
A reason, a sign, a single chance.Nothing answers but the shuffle of footsteps,
A symphony of longing, unbroken concepts.Sometimes I think I see the door,
but the mist doubles back,
Revealing only more questions, and the certainties I lack.
Perhaps this is where the broken come not to heal,
But to understand the edges of their wounds,
what is false and what is real.Regret is a currency spent again and again,
Each old transgression rehearsed with new pain.What
I once denied now returns in shape and voice,
But all the gods are silent—there is no final
choice.The price of purgatory is knowing, without end,
That freedom is a rumor, and peace is just around the next bend.
There are others here, but no comfort in their eyes,
Each is lost to private bargains, to memories in disguise.Some chase redemption,
some just the echo of a name,
But all drift together, alone and the same.If there’s a way out,
it’s hidden behind the weight of years,
A puzzle written in tears, in all the things we feared.Sometimes a prayer rises up,
threadbare and insincere,
But even hope becomes a shadow here.
Where do we go from here, in this nowhere without end?Is this a holding cell for souls,
or just where the lost descend?I reach for answers,
but the air is thick with doubt,
And every step forward just circles back out.Maybe, someday, the mist will part,
Maybe mercy will remember every broken heart.But for now, the fog is king,
And all I can do is wait, and hope, and singIn the quiet, waiting for a sign,
That someday, purgatory will loosen its line.
Until then, the silence is company,
the emptiness clear,And every echo I chase is only my own voice,Asking—over
and over—Where do we go from here?