Rake at the Gates of Hell
When first I fell they gave me thisFarm tool to take and tend to what
Were pebbles, fiery pebbles, spread
Across the land that I was meant
To orderly segment and straight
And I did not see sense in that
But when I asked for sense they flayed
My flesh and took my eyeballs out
And dipped it in memory’s tubs
To relive all the hell I’d raised
When I once lived: the women’s tears
I once bathed in, to which I laughed
And said I felt not one odd thing
To that and they, to that, replied
That’s why you’re here, that’s why you fell,
So do your job, don’t ask for sense,
You are a rake at the gates of hell.
Poetry by Sameen
Read 15 times
Written on 2025-10-26 at 16:04
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