Some go down the primrose path to hell
With a song in their heart.
The wise well
Know that those who go
Down that path
Oft produce great art.
Some do so
With a bitter laugh
And others with a sigh,
And I
Wonder why
Devils can make angels cry
In search of nothing
We bring
The world crashing down around our ears.
All our self-made fears
Come to fruition,
For those who seek for pedition
Come face-to-face with a zero
In their own fractured glass.
Its cold outside.
Angels and devils will decide
(should I fail to wake),
Who will my soul take.
A gentleman went awalking
And heard the people atalking
About hell
And the demons that therein dwell.
“Your soul
Is his goal,
He will steal it away
Ere close of day.
So beware
And have a care”
A priest did say.
The gentleman leaned upon his cane
And I maintain
That by the street lamp’s pale light,
I saw
That night
His claw
And a tail.
I returned home much shaken
Though I could have been mistaken,
About the tail …
“When the clock strikes, I must go” I said.
Lucifer shook his head,
For the clock had long since struck.
No rain can quell
This burning
Hell.
Angels falling from the sky,
Calling to you and I,
Cry
Crocodile tears
For wasted years.
Then, half-heartedly die.
Why pretend
As we descend,
That you do not recognise
In those dead eyes
The mirror image of you and I?
I saw a great tent.
In I went
And found therein
Every man’s particular sin.
There I met
A girl called regret
Who did smile
And for a while
Invited men to forget
All pain.
Returning again and again
They Forged their own chain.
I shook my head
As the gambler said
“This time I shall win”,
For I saw the bookie grin
Drinkers from far and near
Revelled in wine and beer.
They drank and drank
As the sun rose and sank.
“Cheers.
More beers
Here, barmaid for we are soon dead”.
Someone said.
As he spoke
That tent disappeared in sulphur and smoke.
If you call up a demon, don’t be surprised
When it does arise
As some monster from the deep
And into your heart creep.
We at our own creations weep
But can not keep
Our desire
To play with hell’s fire
Under control.
The devil we did create
And, he will our soul take.
The search for the ultimate thrill
May chill
Or kill
The fickle heart.
Better to leave dark
Yearnings to art
Where they can do no harm,
Than down the primrose way start.
The charm
Of a thing
May oft times bring
A fleeting pleasure,
But come the set of sun
When our fun is done
The sting
We feel, then repent at leisure.
—
“Knock, knock! Never at quiet. What are you? But this place is too cold for hell. I’ll devil-porter it no further. I had thought to have let in some of all professions that go the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire”.
Macbeth. Act 2, Scene 3.
Walking the old familiar track.
There is no turning back.
I lack
The will
To drill
Down and discover
What lies under cover.
It is not buried deep
For when I sleep
Memories creep
Out
And demons shout
In my ear.
It is always near
The old familiar fear.
mocking laughter
echoing down the years.
K Morris - Poet 