A gathering of columns,
decorated with bright, orange blooms
that cascade their scent
on the decayed air,
stand bold against the grey river.
To them,
Satan is just a song
that drifts down on the wind,
but for those who sail,
unwillingly,
beyond the columns’ reach,
the song is more
a delighted warning of what awaits,
hellishly reminiscent
of the jaw-jarring scraping
of human fingernails on a blackboard,
drawn so fiercely across
that the nails are ripped away
from the cuticles.
The song instills anxiety into every
body.
What kind of creature
could possibly make such
a sound?
Treeshallow Musings 