My lungs fill more deeply with some airborne knowledge of provision, that I am in a haven unaffected by cuts. When the ground opens in London sucking away the mulch, lucky people here will leave on a special ship.
In a lofty studio a keeper guides their brightness softly.
A young God recreates Dante’s ‘Inferno’, depicting me falling into fiery pits of hell. I hang off a ladder legs splayed, neck dangling simulating agony, it really hurts.
At the second circle for eternal lust, the strongest hurricane sweeps sinners endlessly; I reach out.
Swamp-bound I sulk in anger; and at the 9th and ultimate Satanic hotbed I freeze in motion. Grateful to reach the end of this hellish phase, I rejoice, marveling at the imitation.