Hell Itself

there are no more games
no stained class architecture
blasting up into the sky
for flames to laugh at
from hell itself.

One more face in the gallery
of perpetual evil
swindled by Poseidon's
watery wailing sea
one more martyred
failure where there
shouldn't be.

But somewhere the nights are twice as long
Somewhere the hole that's left behind
sitting like an empty canon
corroding droning entropy withers
fascism fighting against
chisels ringed with
phony thorns singing
like barbed wire
round the lonely hearts
of children.