deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Pounding

The Pounding

The pounding of,
The beating of,
The sounds that won�t stop.
The aching for,
The thirst for more,
Crawling its way to the top.

Scaly and repugnant,
the scent of thousands of corpses,
burn through my system.
Memories of importance,
body infested by roaches,
of someone no longer existent.

From where does it emerge?
And what�s the origin?
Some say it was made by hate,
And darkness conceived it.

It drags itself closer.
It hungers for flesh.
Magnetized and in terror,
I�m drawn into the eyes of hell.

My soul in danger,
My body contorted in disgust.
Decaying sulfur
Infiltrating my lungs
The pounding,
The beating,
Slithering with fingers deep in the soil.
Adrenaline pumping,
Pulse rhythm disrupted,
Breathing out of control.

It grunts furious,
It growls,
What would it want to say?
Through the terror,
The pounding gets louder,
Stilling my heart in one kill,
The demon just wanted to play.

The rapid racing beat
had ended
into Baphomet�s heat.
Ripping into a soul,
With blood stained teeth.

Reduced to nothing.
Carcass, meat, and skin rotting,
Beneath unholy grounds,
They are scorching,
With only the echo of Satan�s demonic pounding.