All the Devils Are Here

They speak of Hell as if they are immune
Or unafraid of fire and ice.
They are already numb
From the roiling inferno of their gut,
Their smog-lungs and brittle veins,
Rigid ventricles of the heart.

What they don’t understand
Is that Hell is the thaw:
A quiet room
Where you are forced to feel everything
After always feeling nothing at all.

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