The Lost Souls, In the Canyon of Pain (Poetic Prose)
Uri’el, the archangel woke me up, within a dream, said “We’re going on a journey, to the see the lost souls, in the Canyon of Pain; and when we arrived I beheld a great fire, in this long canyon of sorts, that extended from sea to sea, where great rods of fire forced its way to and fro, burning with flames consuming all (all but Uri’el and me); it poured like lava:
there I met many long forgotten dictators and kings of my time, killers and traders of their own countries, such as Hugo Chavez, whom was with Fidel Castro, chumming along the ledge of some tall cliffs, with scores, open scabs pus bleeding from all four limbs, they tried to stop me, asking me if they’d been forgotten on earth, as if they were loved by their kind; sad to say, but they were ink blots, in old books, on old shelves, in old libraries, forgotten the day they died.
Then further down the canyon Uri’el flew me, hand in hand, straight as an arrow, until we came to the dryer part and sunken branch where there I beheld quicksand, and vipers who searched the top, to fight among the bobbing heads, and there was Ollanta Humala, Peru’s vulgar tongue. There they were will boils from the vipers’ bits, all over their heads.
Then further down, I saw the warlords of the near past, Pol Pot leading the lot, Sodom Hussein, from Iraq, Bin Laden, from Arabia, George W. Bush from the U.S.A., playing chess inside a cave, to find out which one got to smash the other’s head in, as a circle of rotting flesh, laid about them (and in that flesh, was a thousand names from the past: like Stalin, Hitler, kings and contemporary presidents of Africa, China, Georgia, and Russia, too many to mention).
Then I saw the rich and famous, burning like fall leaves in an iron barrow, large was the barrow, and scorched were they all; Julie Roberts was among them, and so was Sean Penn, and Madonna, each reaching out for the others hands; and there were a thousand more, singers and musicians, and among the most was the Great Pretenders, the actors, the menacing bunch: Leonardo DiCaprio, Demi Moore, Morgan Freeman, Nicole Kidman, Sean Connery, Tim Robbins, Tom Cruise, Will Smith, Russell Crowe, Randolph Scott, Jack Nicholson Ashley Judd and Pacino (to mention a few, all scorched souls, ruined by money and fame).
Then I woke up, and looked about, and in a vision I saw the heroes of the land, the sports arenas of the world as they appeared one by one, and children running to shake the hero’s hand, but all the sportsmen and woman were standing in a line, yelling and screaming, as the children stood by (they had no interest in portraying good sportsmanship, or immolating proper behavior for the new generation), and Pluto, the giant demon of hell, pulled them one by one into his grips, holding a hundred in two hands and then he dropped them into the canyon pit—then reached for another hundred or more, and the children screamed for their heroes now gone, and Pluto simply said, “I’m be waiting for you-all.”
Note: No: 2493 (written, 9-4-2008)
Uri’el, the archangel woke me up, within a dream, said “We’re going on a journey, to the see the lost souls, in the Canyon of Pain; and when we arrived I beheld a great fire, in this long canyon of sorts, that extended from sea to sea, where great rods of fire forced its way to and fro, burning with flames consuming all (all but Uri’el and me); it poured like lava:
there I met many long forgotten dictators and kings of my time, killers and traders of their own countries, such as Hugo Chavez, whom was with Fidel Castro, chumming along the ledge of some tall cliffs, with scores, open scabs pus bleeding from all four limbs, they tried to stop me, asking me if they’d been forgotten on earth, as if they were loved by their kind; sad to say, but they were ink blots, in old books, on old shelves, in old libraries, forgotten the day they died.
Then further down the canyon Uri’el flew me, hand in hand, straight as an arrow, until we came to the dryer part and sunken branch where there I beheld quicksand, and vipers who searched the top, to fight among the bobbing heads, and there was Ollanta Humala, Peru’s vulgar tongue. There they were will boils from the vipers’ bits, all over their heads.
Then further down, I saw the warlords of the near past, Pol Pot leading the lot, Sodom Hussein, from Iraq, Bin Laden, from Arabia, George W. Bush from the U.S.A., playing chess inside a cave, to find out which one got to smash the other’s head in, as a circle of rotting flesh, laid about them (and in that flesh, was a thousand names from the past: like Stalin, Hitler, kings and contemporary presidents of Africa, China, Georgia, and Russia, too many to mention).
Then I saw the rich and famous, burning like fall leaves in an iron barrow, large was the barrow, and scorched were they all; Julie Roberts was among them, and so was Sean Penn, and Madonna, each reaching out for the others hands; and there were a thousand more, singers and musicians, and among the most was the Great Pretenders, the actors, the menacing bunch: Leonardo DiCaprio, Demi Moore, Morgan Freeman, Nicole Kidman, Sean Connery, Tim Robbins, Tom Cruise, Will Smith, Russell Crowe, Randolph Scott, Jack Nicholson Ashley Judd and Pacino (to mention a few, all scorched souls, ruined by money and fame).
Then I woke up, and looked about, and in a vision I saw the heroes of the land, the sports arenas of the world as they appeared one by one, and children running to shake the hero’s hand, but all the sportsmen and woman were standing in a line, yelling and screaming, as the children stood by (they had no interest in portraying good sportsmanship, or immolating proper behavior for the new generation), and Pluto, the giant demon of hell, pulled them one by one into his grips, holding a hundred in two hands and then he dropped them into the canyon pit—then reached for another hundred or more, and the children screamed for their heroes now gone, and Pluto simply said, “I’m be waiting for you-all.”
Note: No: 2493 (written, 9-4-2008)
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