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The Mire Of Wrath

Of tears and pain and filth
A blackened current gushes hence.
It seeps beneath the surface
Of the barren soil.

Spreads amongst the valleys,
Turns the ground to liquid rot.
Behold, the tendrils
Of the vile Stygian Marsh.

Here, the wrathful
Rend each other limb from limb.

They grapple to the death
In frenzied fits of violence.

The sullen choke on sludge
And swallow putrescence below.
The seething of their sighs
Evokes a foam upon the moor.
Gargling hymns of sloth
Inside their gullets, they repent.

Repent.

Above the sprawling bog,
The walls of Dis loom high.
The gate to Lower Hell
Forever shut to all but ghosts.

Atop the ancient monolith
Four vulgar witches perch.
The Furies and Medusa;
Shrieking demons of the swamp.

Possessed by paroxysms
They lament against the Gods.

With gruesome talons tear
The scaly skin from their own chests.

The city of woe awaits.

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