(Inspired by “The Dream of Nightmares”)
Canto of the Last Descent
(Inspired by “The Dream of Nightmares”)
Beneath a sky where even stars had fled,
The tender souls were herded to the heights,
While wolves in skin of lambs among them tread.
No trumpet sounded—only swollen nights
Pressed silence on the multitude below,
Where wrong stood tall and right had lost its rights.
With faces pale, the pure began to know
Their weeping was not hidden from the damned,
Who smirked with joy to see such sorrow grow.
They bore no shame. They neither begged nor scrammed—
Their eyes were coals, their hearts like granite stones,
Their laughter struck like hammers when it slammed.
And I—who once had walked among their bones—
Beheld the hidden truth with burning breath,
A witness torn between the shrieks and moans.
The tender souls, betrayed and yoked to death,
Looked skyward for a mercy long delayed,
While justice stirred beneath a heaven’s breadth.
I led the bound unto the judgment blade,
One soul, though shackled, chosen from the ash—
And on the pedestal that soul was laid.
The guilty watched, unflinching, cold and brash,
Their pride unbent, their scorn like sharpened glass,
Each smirk a flame, each breath a searing lash.
Then Heaven split—an ancient voice did pass:
“The time is struck. The seal undone. Depart.”
And terror danced across the swaying mass.
I saw the maw of wrath—its blackened heart
A canyon vast atop the wailing stone,
Where light withdrew and joy was torn apart.
The pit was not a grave—it stood alone,
A wound of God, unhealed, forever wide,
Where no voice rose and no sin could atone.
The guilty soul, unyielding still in pride,
Was cast into that black, unending chasm—
No scream was heard, though deep the soul did slide.
It fell through sulfur fog and soundless spasm,
Where all who mocked the Lamb had made their bed,
Beyond the bounds of grace and holy chrism.
And I, who once was slow and full of dread,
Now stood as one whom time had struck awake—
A prophet walking where the blind were led.
O sleeper, stir! Before the mountains break—
The Judge draws near, and none may flee His name.
The guilty smile beside thee for thy sake.
Awake, awake! The sky begins to flame.
The breath you waste may be the final one—
The gate is not afar—it calls your name.
Written by Marguerite Grace
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