Pan's Pipes In Hell

In twisting shadows,
the dark doubts of mind
and mysterious questions
still abound.

Like Satan’s dancers,
in dimly lit halls
where black flames leap
above dull hot fires,
quivering in their heat,
thoughts seeking release.

Deep molten streams of red lava
flows in the mind’s far corners
where the emotions hold.

Burning out the soft flesh
of idealistic dreams,
o’erwhelming the golden quests,
lava lust gains the hold.

And gentle thoughts die,
Oh, mourn the soft feelings’
throes, that then quietly vanish
into the heart’s stone stronghold.

The fires flare fierce
the dancers turn dervish,
Pan’s pipes begin to blow.

Published in Nomad’s Choir