I feel cold creeping hands,
Dragging me down,
Into the fires of the underground.
All I hear is the screeching sound,
Of heroes wearing funeral frowns.
I feel warm probing fingers,
Across my skin,
And my, how they seem to linger.
I'm petrified of this demonic danger,
Of seraphim pretending to sin
I feel hot sweating palms,
Touching my face,
Brushing across lips as I stay calm.
Now I fear they'll sense my alarm,
Of angels insulting grace.
Man, am I getting tired. Right here's a dark poem.