deepundergroundpoetry.com
Domain of the Damned
- Domain of the Damned -
Through metal corridors filled with red crumbling rust,
Lost souls scurry, bound by chains of sorrow’s lust…
For happiness deprived like air from a drowning man!
All in accordance with the glory of some divine plan…
Which demands the darkness be filled, with radiance.
Yet therein the fleshly prisoners can only try to grimace!
The chains that bind them, clang against hollow walls,
Until their shrieks abound, where only the raven calls.
Death birds crying in cavernous dwellings of madness,
In time to the tortured ones who are bound by sadness!
Flesh melding to flesh, until new grotesque shapes rise,
From the depths of insanity, amidst the raven’s cries…
Which summon forth the fiends from their old slumber.
Ancient chains are broken, no more to ever encumber,
They who were bound in abyssal dreams, not dying…
Yet not living, but someplace between the two lying.
The old ones come, the ancient ones of eldritch name!
Gods to some, devils to others, emissaries of flame…
Brightly lighting the metallic domains with roaring fury.
There, where creatures crawl and not even rats scurry,
For there are more awful regions in human darkness…
Than in all of Hell, to fill the soul with horrible distress!
The hulking guardians lumber down the black tunnels,
Scraping their gigantic blades behind them, screeching.
Like nails on a chalkboard, like eels in watery funnels!
The sound shrieks, though they are mute, beseeching…
Beckoning to the damned, whose pain they do elevate.
The manifestations of guilt, whose gluttony none sate…
Yet they starve, for evil feeds only upon itself, in time.
Tearing at the flesh, gorging on blood sweetly sublime,
To the taste of the horrors of the pits, who there feed!
How they come, to honor the guardians’ silent creed,
Their blades scraping through bone, grating, grinding…
The guardians of the damned set about thusly binding,
Souls to new forms, shaped by the will of a mad god!
A mad goddess: she who rules, beneath soil and sod.
Before the eye set into the throne, before the majesty,
Of the pale, horned one who crucifies unto ecstasy…
Those who would be martyred by foolishness eternal!
Only to become entrapped: in black chasms, infernal.
Hollow voices echoing in hollow places, singing softly,
A dirge of lamentation they sing, a gray, grim melody.
Who hears it but those whose faith is stronger by far,
Than those who languish, long, like prisoners of war!
Smoke and fog choke the tunnels of the lower realm,
Beneath the shafts where the Titans once were cast…
Beyond which: are sights that could sanity overwhelm.
Madness in the dark, where only fire’s light will last…
But there, is hid a glow brighter than brightest sunlight.
It wears the mask of shadow, but with an arcane rite,
The way to a paradise might be unlocked, by mercy…
Amidst a merciless dwelling, ruled by a cruel divinity.
Cruelty in order to be kind, lunacy in names of love…
Thus works the forgotten goddess, whilst just above,
The ravens gather, the flapping of wings so deafening!
Rusty gears spin slowly, as souls await their turning…
Bound to the gears of karmic law by their own hands.
Thus man punishes itself, by no decree of living lands,
Summoning forth the guardians to oversee the horror.
But each brute bears a sinner’s face like dark mirror,
Held in the hand of some insane cosmic puppeteer…
Though no hand pulls the strings, nor could any steer:
The course of destiny to run in any way it should not.
We trap ourselves, by our own deeds, to be caught!
No laughter rings, in the metallic halls that I describe,
For there are none joyful, condemned to there abide.
Can there be freedom from a purgatory so complete?
Only beyond the place where darkness has its’ seat,
Beyond fire and ice, where deep waters are clouded:
A throne of shadow in a tower so darkly enshrouded!
That night would be more radiant when one compares,
How glorious the glow of the domain no angel dares…
Save those who have grown accustomed to the sights.
No eye views it the same, and by the heat that blights,
The gardens outside the beauty of Elysian tranquility…
Wherein the righteous are rewarded in love’s equality:
By that same humidity, the undeserving so kept apart,
Can only gnash their teeth, tearing out their own heart.
Sanguine offerings to their own vastly brutish agonies!
No altars shall receive them, for they earn no dignities,
Either in life or in death, once they abandon their soul.
When you lose the ability to love, beyond all control…
The abysses I speak of receive you, ever so greedily!
Whilst the guardians lumber along, never as speedily…
As the angels who walk amongst you seeking to save,
Yet how many of them were hypocrites so depraved!
And so I speak truth, not falsehood; thus this warning:
Hold fast, the wisdom of this daughter of the morning.
Through metal corridors filled with red crumbling rust,
Lost souls scurry, bound by chains of sorrow’s lust…
For happiness deprived like air from a drowning man!
All in accordance with the glory of some divine plan…
Which demands the darkness be filled, with radiance.
Yet therein the fleshly prisoners can only try to grimace!
The chains that bind them, clang against hollow walls,
Until their shrieks abound, where only the raven calls.
Death birds crying in cavernous dwellings of madness,
In time to the tortured ones who are bound by sadness!
Flesh melding to flesh, until new grotesque shapes rise,
From the depths of insanity, amidst the raven’s cries…
Which summon forth the fiends from their old slumber.
Ancient chains are broken, no more to ever encumber,
They who were bound in abyssal dreams, not dying…
Yet not living, but someplace between the two lying.
The old ones come, the ancient ones of eldritch name!
Gods to some, devils to others, emissaries of flame…
Brightly lighting the metallic domains with roaring fury.
There, where creatures crawl and not even rats scurry,
For there are more awful regions in human darkness…
Than in all of Hell, to fill the soul with horrible distress!
The hulking guardians lumber down the black tunnels,
Scraping their gigantic blades behind them, screeching.
Like nails on a chalkboard, like eels in watery funnels!
The sound shrieks, though they are mute, beseeching…
Beckoning to the damned, whose pain they do elevate.
The manifestations of guilt, whose gluttony none sate…
Yet they starve, for evil feeds only upon itself, in time.
Tearing at the flesh, gorging on blood sweetly sublime,
To the taste of the horrors of the pits, who there feed!
How they come, to honor the guardians’ silent creed,
Their blades scraping through bone, grating, grinding…
The guardians of the damned set about thusly binding,
Souls to new forms, shaped by the will of a mad god!
A mad goddess: she who rules, beneath soil and sod.
Before the eye set into the throne, before the majesty,
Of the pale, horned one who crucifies unto ecstasy…
Those who would be martyred by foolishness eternal!
Only to become entrapped: in black chasms, infernal.
Hollow voices echoing in hollow places, singing softly,
A dirge of lamentation they sing, a gray, grim melody.
Who hears it but those whose faith is stronger by far,
Than those who languish, long, like prisoners of war!
Smoke and fog choke the tunnels of the lower realm,
Beneath the shafts where the Titans once were cast…
Beyond which: are sights that could sanity overwhelm.
Madness in the dark, where only fire’s light will last…
But there, is hid a glow brighter than brightest sunlight.
It wears the mask of shadow, but with an arcane rite,
The way to a paradise might be unlocked, by mercy…
Amidst a merciless dwelling, ruled by a cruel divinity.
Cruelty in order to be kind, lunacy in names of love…
Thus works the forgotten goddess, whilst just above,
The ravens gather, the flapping of wings so deafening!
Rusty gears spin slowly, as souls await their turning…
Bound to the gears of karmic law by their own hands.
Thus man punishes itself, by no decree of living lands,
Summoning forth the guardians to oversee the horror.
But each brute bears a sinner’s face like dark mirror,
Held in the hand of some insane cosmic puppeteer…
Though no hand pulls the strings, nor could any steer:
The course of destiny to run in any way it should not.
We trap ourselves, by our own deeds, to be caught!
No laughter rings, in the metallic halls that I describe,
For there are none joyful, condemned to there abide.
Can there be freedom from a purgatory so complete?
Only beyond the place where darkness has its’ seat,
Beyond fire and ice, where deep waters are clouded:
A throne of shadow in a tower so darkly enshrouded!
That night would be more radiant when one compares,
How glorious the glow of the domain no angel dares…
Save those who have grown accustomed to the sights.
No eye views it the same, and by the heat that blights,
The gardens outside the beauty of Elysian tranquility…
Wherein the righteous are rewarded in love’s equality:
By that same humidity, the undeserving so kept apart,
Can only gnash their teeth, tearing out their own heart.
Sanguine offerings to their own vastly brutish agonies!
No altars shall receive them, for they earn no dignities,
Either in life or in death, once they abandon their soul.
When you lose the ability to love, beyond all control…
The abysses I speak of receive you, ever so greedily!
Whilst the guardians lumber along, never as speedily…
As the angels who walk amongst you seeking to save,
Yet how many of them were hypocrites so depraved!
And so I speak truth, not falsehood; thus this warning:
Hold fast, the wisdom of this daughter of the morning.
Published 22nd Dec 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 1
reading list entries 0
comments 2
reads 934
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
25th Dec 2012 1:54am
This feels sooo much different when flowed out loud, versus read quietly. I have had to do both a few times on this. Thank you!
Ancient chains are broken, no more to ever encumber,
They who were bound in abyssal dreams, not dying…
Yet not living, but someplace between the two lying.
The old ones come, the ancient ones of eldritch name!
Gods to some, devils to others, emissaries of flame…
Ancient deities remain, well after the civilizations that created are erased, leaving little more than a historical stain. I suppose someone still has to guard the charges. Saviors to their lovers, to others slavers with a hunger, slayed crusaders would have reason to call those deities demons.
Beckoning to the damned, whose pain they do elevate.
The manifestations of guilt, whose gluttony none sate…
Yet they starve, for evil feeds only upon itself, in time.
Curious case of different cards delt, with the same part to smelt... same steel, differences to feel but in a recent piece I also reveal... inner demons consume their own hosts! Other's souls to roast won't fill the rot as such. It isn't a cannibal's potluck. But for every soul digested I guess there's back-interest to collect. So the story continues on in purgatory? Good to go on without worry!
Bound to the gears of karmic law by their own hands.
Thus man punishes itself, by no decree of living lands,
Summoning forth the guardians to oversee the horror.
I always found that part of the problem. A Code of Hammurabi hard-on leads to ALL crimes being unpardonned. Guardians giving hands with no decree of living lands... guess the forgotten gods were rotten and wished to come back popping and pissed. This is the part of your arc where I started to reeeeally see parallels historically from where Patriarchal take-over to shake the souls of those beholden made a colder crushing development in eternal punishment. I was glad to see that resolved by your own Judgement in the next verse to set free, the one about mercy...
The way to a paradise might be unlocked, by mercy…
Amidst a merciless dwelling, ruled by a cruel divinity.
Cruelty in order to be kind, lunacy in names of love…
Thus works the forgotten goddess, whilst just above,
The ravens gather, the flapping of wings so deafening!
A goddess, forgotten from this, still often around popping bliss? Maybe saying "I'm not being dismissed. Redemption comes from internal inspection." A gruff shove towards getting above like a mother's tough love. Purgatory and punishment was the steel inside the velvet glove. There was something before all that that tells of mothers from the mud... but I suppose civiliation decided that matriarchal placement just wasn't enough.
By that same humidity, the undeserving so kept apart,
Can only gnash their teeth, tearing out their own heart.
Sanguine offerings to their own vastly brutish agonies!
Steamy shower scene, when the humidity is so high you can't see a thing I suppose past your own nose. Keeping the suffering crowded, but so blinded...
It's alot like the kind of selfish view that brought them down to Hell to pay their dues in the first place so true...
Uh... I hurried that bit for sure, no worry, you didn't write of Hell but Purgatory. Either way a self-sacrifice to make that wealth of hacked up vice just right, an offering of one's sanguine self..
AFTER death... when blood is just memory... offering synergy... paying a debt from what's within to see... and balance the strife of what allowances in life and callow vices BROUGHT that eternal night? Subtle, tricky, and subtle. I love this piece, for every hidden complete muzzled treat huddled in complete!
Hold fast, the wisdom of this daughter of the morning.
Daughter of the morningstar. A strong warning to go far. This one flowed soooo personal. A tight ride Ms. Ashton, I will return to visit your landscape again for sure. Thank you for this piece!
Ancient chains are broken, no more to ever encumber,
They who were bound in abyssal dreams, not dying…
Yet not living, but someplace between the two lying.
The old ones come, the ancient ones of eldritch name!
Gods to some, devils to others, emissaries of flame…
Ancient deities remain, well after the civilizations that created are erased, leaving little more than a historical stain. I suppose someone still has to guard the charges. Saviors to their lovers, to others slavers with a hunger, slayed crusaders would have reason to call those deities demons.
Beckoning to the damned, whose pain they do elevate.
The manifestations of guilt, whose gluttony none sate…
Yet they starve, for evil feeds only upon itself, in time.
Curious case of different cards delt, with the same part to smelt... same steel, differences to feel but in a recent piece I also reveal... inner demons consume their own hosts! Other's souls to roast won't fill the rot as such. It isn't a cannibal's potluck. But for every soul digested I guess there's back-interest to collect. So the story continues on in purgatory? Good to go on without worry!
Bound to the gears of karmic law by their own hands.
Thus man punishes itself, by no decree of living lands,
Summoning forth the guardians to oversee the horror.
I always found that part of the problem. A Code of Hammurabi hard-on leads to ALL crimes being unpardonned. Guardians giving hands with no decree of living lands... guess the forgotten gods were rotten and wished to come back popping and pissed. This is the part of your arc where I started to reeeeally see parallels historically from where Patriarchal take-over to shake the souls of those beholden made a colder crushing development in eternal punishment. I was glad to see that resolved by your own Judgement in the next verse to set free, the one about mercy...
The way to a paradise might be unlocked, by mercy…
Amidst a merciless dwelling, ruled by a cruel divinity.
Cruelty in order to be kind, lunacy in names of love…
Thus works the forgotten goddess, whilst just above,
The ravens gather, the flapping of wings so deafening!
A goddess, forgotten from this, still often around popping bliss? Maybe saying "I'm not being dismissed. Redemption comes from internal inspection." A gruff shove towards getting above like a mother's tough love. Purgatory and punishment was the steel inside the velvet glove. There was something before all that that tells of mothers from the mud... but I suppose civiliation decided that matriarchal placement just wasn't enough.
By that same humidity, the undeserving so kept apart,
Can only gnash their teeth, tearing out their own heart.
Sanguine offerings to their own vastly brutish agonies!
Steamy shower scene, when the humidity is so high you can't see a thing I suppose past your own nose. Keeping the suffering crowded, but so blinded...
It's alot like the kind of selfish view that brought them down to Hell to pay their dues in the first place so true...
Uh... I hurried that bit for sure, no worry, you didn't write of Hell but Purgatory. Either way a self-sacrifice to make that wealth of hacked up vice just right, an offering of one's sanguine self..
AFTER death... when blood is just memory... offering synergy... paying a debt from what's within to see... and balance the strife of what allowances in life and callow vices BROUGHT that eternal night? Subtle, tricky, and subtle. I love this piece, for every hidden complete muzzled treat huddled in complete!
Hold fast, the wisdom of this daughter of the morning.
Daughter of the morningstar. A strong warning to go far. This one flowed soooo personal. A tight ride Ms. Ashton, I will return to visit your landscape again for sure. Thank you for this piece!
28th Dec 2012 00:28am
So good to hear from you, Loki! I am glad you read my poem, and took the time to give your poetic thoughts upon it. Poems such as this contain many levels of depth, many secrets to them, and one can see much in them when one chooses to look. Thanks for looking, and for telling me what you saw when you looked! ;)
