The Underworld
There is no fire—
or fury,
or punishment.
It is quiet.
Too quiet.
A hush so dense
it presses on the ribs
and fills the mouth
with the taste
of white chalk.
Here,
nothing calls your name.
Time pools
like stagnant water.
No beginning,
no edge—
just the ache
of being here.
Pain pushes on you.
You push back.
The door holds—
then gives.
It floods
and takes you.
Light does not come in—
despair repels grace.
Not even the gods
follow you here.
Only your shadow
keeps you company,
and even she
grows thin with silence.
You search for something—
a crack,
a sound,
a tether.
But the underworld
is a place where all seeking stops.
Where the ache
is a silent scream—
falling and falling
through nothing.
What descends
remembers the sky.
Yet it still falls
into its empty blue.