By The Fires Of Hell Poem by Eric Cockrell

i kissed the cyanide lips,
of the god of my childhood.
walked the desolate streets,
strewn with human refuse and garbage.
under the heavy curse
of false morality and judgement.
to the edge of town,
where the hanging tree stood.

the sweat stained pits,
of bodies faceless and rotting.
a black and white movie,
dirge of the pilgrim.
walls made of wax,
and ideals with numb fingers.
church bells ringing,
forever just ringing!

why is it true souls are always homeless?
i hear the voices, i feel the weeping.
poverty breaks the glass,
and hunger melts the candle.
when sins become as real as death!
so who pays the price?
and who bears the load?
in the end we are always naked!

i wait beneath the tree,
by the shadow of the rope.
whose hands? my hands?
whose retribution? my guilt?
then soft as the wind,
and light formed from shadows...
i hear the voice of the Lover,
calling, from beyond the door!