Desolation

There is a place, somewhere
full of scraps of yellowed paper
broken pencils with erasers half worn down
and candles still burning,
with orange and yellow flames against a background
so dark, it swallows you whole.
There is a place, far away
where the drawings are of demons,
breath as hot as the core of the earth
and eyes as dark as your room
with your blinds shut and a bullet through your brain.
Somewhere, there, embers burn from dying fires,
and worn down lead bleeds black onto brittle papers
by the light of a candle, ebony and thick.
Pentograms line the walls, inverted and smoldering.
All is lost, when Satan calls.