Hell is a loving place. Your damnation is
to be adored. This will be revealed to you
when the Demons sip your cool tears and
wrap Their hot, dry arms around the shell
of what-once-was. The last of your fluids
will be caught up in gold-tinted champagne
flutes and your soul will provide the Fallen
Ones with an endless feast. Their hungry
worship will prick you to remembrance
after remembrance, an infinite loop of
regret. If only you had indulged your Body
while you still had possession of it. If only
you had abandoned your Self to sensation.
If only you had snatched and savored
everything that had crossed your path.
When the firey Angels of the Pit caress
you, you will curse your own prudence.
The lash of moderation drives all souls
to the plush embrace of Hell. Love is the
undoing after Death. Love unmakes us
all. The secondhand breath the Demons
kiss into your spirit-mouth will barely
be enough for to move your lips and say,
"Once, I was."
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