Hell Has No Gates

By: Kitarel Posted on: October 28, 2011

Rising from the depths of the ink black sky,
Cold, familiar and ever-watching;
Lady of the Night heralds the accompaniment
Oh her pale horses.

They ride upon the skirts of the Maiden of the Galaxy,
Her long curls of silken silver dusted with diamonds.
She looks upon Sapience with starlit eyes.
Watching. Waiting.

Rising from the spirit wastes of the Unrest,
She waits and heralds the ringer of the bell.
He comes to her with bloodshot eyes
And beckons for his Lady's hand to steer the creatures to their graves.

Pulling and weaving their gnarled fingers through the soil
And pushing their way above their final rest.
Crumbling their headstones to dust beneath their bones.
I see them sometimes.

The Pale Horse looks down upon the world.
His eyes streaked with madness.
The stirrings arise from the gates of the Underworld
And the spirits pour forth like a sickness.

They infect the pores of the weak and willing.
Tear down the walls of the epidermis.
Every hour is the witching hour.

We sit and we wait because Mayaween is the
Night that Hell has no gates.