What Dante
Didn’t realize
Is that hell falls
Where we stand
As a place
Which turns all children
Into men
Who burn their toys

And trade such games
For knives
At request
Of the aging furnace
With need
To fuel some meaning
Among what flames
Will rage

On smolders
Made from dolls
Like blazes
Eating trinkets
Inhaling dreams
Left swallowed
By tongues
Of fiery beasts

Called progress
Or due time
Beyond this day
We’ve wasted
Abiding heat
Through money
Amassing wealth
In death

While paints
And colored tales
Speak heavens
Out of waiting
When art remains
Insistent
Our faith
Keep cooler hopes

Expressing play
As God
Still innocent
Though abating
These sparks
Which stifle memories
With resistance
Held in prose –

This cross
I long to seek
Despite how tinder
Kindles
And ruins words
By torment
Of young virtue
Growing old,

My past
That’s nearly lost
Every moment
Reason suffers
Knowing hope
Is giving purpose
Through each final
Act of fun.

– J. Pigno