Infernal King—your vellum brushed my cuffs
while trumpets bent the chandeliers with praise.
I slipped beyond the table—figs gone soft,
their sugared rot recalling your malaise.
Your tome—impeccably lamented—passed
through ordered choirs and registries of fire;
each sphere deferred the burden up the vast
unceasing chain no grievance may retire.
I know this craft: the careful aggregates
of injury, until at last they crown a plea.
But Hell is not confined to frozen lakes—
it takes the shape of waiting endlessly
in any realm where every door is closed.
Yours in Harmony—the Holy Ghost.