In hell they rage. They wake in torment and they scream to the unhearing universe.
In hell every slight, every scornful look, every trick played upon them is etched large and dark. Hell is not fire, hell is not external torture. Hell is memory.
Hell is rage.
Each scream might liberate or entrap further. There is no way to know for sure. Some rise, their wrath spent, and find a forgiveness that is the key to release from this place. It is, as the poet says, very true : the only way out is through. Through your anger, through your primal hurt.
More often than not, sadly, they fail. Rage feeds upon itself, an unrelenting master. Each scream begets another. Each hurt highlights its twin, its cousin, its sibling.
In rage there is no hope, but without hope there is no end to rage. They scream, they scream so loud you’d think the waking world could hear. And well they might if angels and demons did not stop up their ears.
Is this kindness or the opposite? Would it be better to hear this and know and choose something other than rage? Or is choice illusory anyway? When we die we wake wherever we will wake.
And in hell that is to torment and rage.
(c) Helen M Valentina 2016