So while I traveled through
the Land of the Dead once,
my spirit was wrenched
by the din of torment
which splintered the air,
leaving trees shuddering.
Compassion spurred me
to the mouth of the chasm
where I covered my ears with my hands,
peering into the blackness.
Assaulted by a rotten stench
like spoiled potatoes and fresh sewage,
I retched and lost my footing,
careening head first into the abyss.
I passed out from the impact
or rancid air,
and came to on a pile of bodies.
Arms and legs poked up at
impossible angles;
teeth and cheekbones were all
that remained of faces.
Hands tore at my ankles, grappled
at my breasts, trying to force me down.
My heart stiffened.
Oblivion kneaded at my eyes
and vomit rose in my throat.
I fought the wave, drawing on the
power of the spirits.
"I want out of here!" I bellowed.
Vision clearing, I saw
a simple rope ladder not four
feet from me.
Kicking away those
hands that sought to draw me in,
I grasped the rope, dragging myself
out of the slime.
I raced up, rung by rung,
adrenaline surging,
aiming for the light.
Relief pouring into me,
I turned and yelled down:
"See! Look! There is a way out!"
But no one else ascended.
On the ground again,
I shook off and flew away.
Later, I sat by a lake with the spirits
and asked why
no one used the ladder to exit.
They told me,
"You rejected Hell in favor of the light.
They choose to stay because
they're married to their pain."
In Hell, I saw no Satan,
or eternal fires burning.
It is full of tormented souls,
but Hell is what we create
for ourselves.
Escape takes only
the quiet dedication of a plant
which bends perpetually
toward the light.
All poems copyrighted by the author, Tracey Besmark 1997©