Poem: “Xibalba”

I had a dream of the end of all things;
in it, the Lord did not come in a symphony of lightning
And on wings of fire.

Instead, I was in a massive amphitheater,
And in it fit the glory of all the dead, the ones passed since the Beginning,
So wide I could barely see the other end.

In the grand field below, strewn about with abandon,
Were bodies that I could not number.
Among them were giants of myth, many more of quaint heredity.

All laid among a low-hung mist permeating the field,
And what struck me was how peaceful their faces appeared.
Next to me, the Final Apostle, the one of unwritten psalms, whispered to me.

“Those who fall into the mist of low places,
these are the ones of everlasting death,
To whom there is no return, the death of the dead.”

I looked across the impossible field,
And there I saw in the center of the bodies and mist
an utter dark, a hole where the ground was slanted all around.

I realized that everything around the field was slowly being drawn in,
The hole betraying a gravity and hunger for all the Eternal Dead.
In great terror I realized I was being lifted up,

Taken into the air and over the crowd and field,
Until finally I was directly above the yawning darkness.
In it, I saw the dark crackle and murmur with a strange static,

And eyes blinked in and out of existence,
Staring at me with a horrible hunger.
And I feared the forces lifting me up would make descend

Into the maelstrom of chaos that was eternal death,
But they did not.
I awoke in familiar darkness, a tremor in my chest and hands

For the things beheld;
The dread not departing,
Fearful that dawn would never break.

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