Hell's Song Poem by Hm. Nes

The children sing, but they have not yet learned
The music of those higher forms of life,
To tune their harps with sweet, sad songs that yearn
And lust for more through endless cosmic strife,
For more of time and less of hope unearned,
And more of more, and more of what is rife
In derelict hearts- bruised, tattered, longing for,
But soon to find that what is lost is more.

Had they but known their fortunes, read and white,
Would cast aside for better graves of stone
Or marble. Have it any way you like.
Death comes in every color, every tone,
With ample time for all the best of life,
With no delay. For all of time is gone,
And those who laugh can now at last laugh last;
For every fear (and every hope) has passed.

Across the river cry the stones. The Styx
Does roar so loud that I cannot quite hear
The music of those simple-minded kids
Who sing of hope and hope, but none of fear.
Fools! Why sing silly songs if just for kicks,
While death and hate and hell do linger near.
Why cry these stones? Why do they cry so loud
And speak of hope? What is this life, a shroud?

But now the shroud is cast aside. My eyes
At last, do see the hope amidst the lies.
I hear the stones along the river Styx.
The stones cry out; they sing a song of hope.
They sing of God, but why this slippery slope?
I'm sliding down. Is this some cosmic trick?
At least I find that I am not alone.
Those higher forms still play our sweet sad song.