Hell is not bright and alight with fire,
  No suffering voices in the flame;
It is cold and filled with shame.
  Dark and empty.
    Echoing with eternal blame.

Naked and pinned to the clammy stone,
  Not dead but prone;
    A waiting chill. Face pointed down.
Wet fur and a panting hound.
No bark.
Wants meat. Fastened to the rock.
  Locked in the dark.
Hungers to slide in its teeth,
  Eager with blame and fault,
  Penetrate and assault.

The smaller creatures come to feast.
Upon the sweating human beast.
They crawl. Slowly. Across that shaking flesh.
Oh so fresh and alive. So firm on which to dine.
  To study and whisper unknown secrets. To sting.

See the razor's edge.
  It shines like a steel beacon in the night.
    All else fades before it.
Smell the blood.
  Taste its salty flood.
    Sticky.
Dripping like sad Echo's tears
  Salty upon a forest pool.
Silent ripples disappear.
  No fear.
    No fool.

Molten wax. All that now remains
  of white and feathery wings.

Boil them in the blood...

Burn them!

Seal the wounds...

Choke down the pain!

Spit out the bile...

  of that hound's eager breath.

Scream back at death!

Hell is not bright and alight with fire,
It is empty and dark with shame.
Cold and damp and filled with blame.