This road,
halfway to nowhere,
no service station to stop and prepare.
Just asphalt, hot and black.
Lined with skulls, no turning back.
The highway to hell..
Highway? More like a low road.
Down past the witches casting spells,
through the graveyard of old bones.
Old roads continue in circles,
repetitious time, replaying moments of old.
Lined with shit - not paved in gold.
Down the old dirt track,
towards the disused old wooden shack.
A place so hard to ignore,
six, six, six hangs on the door.
The number of the beast.
Down in the pits - on our hopes he feasts.
The dark gravel trail to hell's gate,
where the dead flail
and the air tastes of hate.
Where the rancid stench of burning flesh.
takes what is left of your breath.
Over it all the beast prevails.
His lair, his domain,
his palace of torture and pain.
The walls lined with confessions of murderous rage.
Thanks for reading,
Please take a look at my latest book on Amazon
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B098GQSK46
And follow me on Facebook
www.facebook.com/wordsandfluff
Peace, Love and Poetry
Kyle
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