The Metal Closet III

such irony, and in bad taste,
for there is no sun but clouds,
of infinite and incredible darkness,
ominous sponges of sorrowful tears
that doth blot out the sun.
i see no sun, no light, nor day.
i see instead agony,
personified and living,
breathing the same air as i do-
transpire we together,
but he who expires is i.
there he greets me.
then lo, as i sign in,
name, date and time,
i walk with him, hand in hand, into hell.
and lo, behold and plot, hell has a new address:
*censored*