The nadir of the red place shrouded in blue,
a ceiling like the blackest of skies doubling
as the floor of fraud. The epicenter of Hell
is ice, not fire, because cold cuts the soul worse than heat.
In dead center the dreaded master patiently waits on his throne
for some small chance of liberation. He observes the traitors at his feet
encased in ice and frozen stiff in their ongoing misery. He loves their misery.
A surrounding fence of dead and frozen trees encompasses the lake. The Evil One
sits and blends into the walls of the winter basement. He is without fear, without love.
Soon the next damned soul, a soul infested with treachery, will plummet and grovel before him.
Will that soul be yours?