DESI
Through the funhouse sound system that is Hell, I hear singing.
At first I believe it to be my imagination. There are no people here. There are no voices here.
There is no singing.
Is it me? Am I singing?
It’s a legitimate question. Maybe I’ve gone insane. Maybe I’ve lost my sanity along with my hope, my sorrow, my love.
“He’ll reach for me, I’ll reach for him. Together we’ll make an awful din! He’ll reach for me, I’ll reach for him, he’ll think to give but I will take, I’ll take and not give back to him.”
I hear the words; hear the music that rambles with such meaninglessness that I know - these are not my words. Not my tune. But I do know them.
“Come little one, I’ll be your mother, and you will never pine for another. Come little one and reach for me, I’ll let you shelter betwixt me!”