Paul Begadon Poetry

Blind and beaten and writhing
Did I awake.
They loom above me,red rusted
And shrieking,
those horrid gates.

I am no Dante.
No Virgil came
to take my hand,
This is no epic.

Would that I could wake
From these flames,
Their searing pierces
And freezes and burns.
I cannot shield my heart.
And then they come...

We are dragged,
Kicking and screaming
Like bright eyed children to bed.
Like lambs to the butcher.

We burn and sizzle and crumple
Like a sheet held aloft above a flame.
It is not our flesh that peels and flakes,
We are prodded and jabbed
'Til our souls run clear.

We burn the grizzle that is our dreams.

Poet: Paul Begadon