[hell’s black intelligencer]
There once was a hummingbird who tried to
Fly to heaven.
He fell exhausted to the ground,
Tired by his efforts.
Dead to the world, having created the
Stars, and as a final effort,
The moon.
It’s a great story you see,
But not true.
On his last effort he did not
Fall, as the story goes,
But squeezed through the hole
He made, into the fabric of beyond.
Emerging from the hole he was instantly
Blinded by the overwhelming
White which existed.
Having torn through the
Fabric of existence
He emerged not into heaven
Nor hell,
He merely came into being in this new place.
There was no substance, and
Yet it was not bereft of matter.
It was where the start of everything and its
Ending too were taking place
Simultaneously.
He tried to look, but
His eyes were burned from their
Sockets by the
Tremendous glare
Issuing from an unknown
Source at an unknown
Distance.
But his wings carried
Him forward and
Up
Searching for a limit
To this, the
New world.
It became hotter as he
Raised himself above the
Orb of his previous home.
The increasing heat became
Unbearable, the white light
Scorching not just his empty eye
Sockets but now his soul,
His entrails, his
Being.
Down he fell,
Down.
Falling through the hole which he’d made
An eternity ago
Or which he’d just made
Depending.
Until at last
Travelling faster than his own cries would have preceded him,
Had he been able to cry out, he
Hit.
Silence reigned for a time
And then
He woke.
He tried to speak, to listen, to breathe, to communicate,
But he could only raise his scarred eyelids to reveal
Two shimmering globes, devoid of sight and blacker than a night in deepest hell.
