The Depths of Hell

Gaze upon the page of black-
horribly carved hearts dance before me,
men deceiving women for their worth
'midst mischief and tragedy on a misconstrued day.

Is this garbage worth keeping?
The little letters commence militant rituals,
condemning me for imagined sins
despite I gave birth to their words.

I can bear the labor of developing their sins,
but can they hold the rest of the weight?
Upon this page they buckle 'neath my critical eye
as I expect them to perform miracles.

Of course those traitorous words are bound to buckle
when they're too weak to carry a concept so big.
They taunt me for the responsibility I give them,
hell bent on making them speak my mind.

They will tell a story of heinous betrayal.
They will decree that justice be served.
They will crush Christianity, obliterate its core
and show the hate that lies within religion.

But maybe because they are words forming an athiest's taunts
that they refuse to sing in harmony, and thus
they punish me severely:
incoherency.

I take my papers, pages of black.
I hold them in my hand, denying the backstabbing words their final breaths.
They meet the flame that will send them back to hell (from whence they came?)...

and I shall say 'The hell with you, too!' leaving the story to fade away.