My stars are shining differently, here in the great below,
And lead like breadcrumbs in the black of the great below.
Straddling peaks of ancient grey, see the sun blink and sway,
As it lights the backs of dragons who sweep in from below.
He drops two shots of marsh whiskey in her hands,
And with his smile, demands a shudder down below.
Of all the unlucky orphans to waltz through my door,
He says, poor child, you were born to run below.
The 3rd king of hell watches with discontent the wreck
And spectacle of this unruliest of his minions below.
They tried to give her a gift, early on, a painting that
Would only fit the door of her dark smile below.
Midnight chimes and the book’s still open, bleached
In the bright light of the blasted sun I sit below.
The tombstone read: Here lies Megan, dead again,
From inhaling brimstone in bed, she lives below.
- “by the crook and cross” by Megan Kennedy
Painting is “Pandaemonium” by John Martin