National Poetry Month: Poem 1

As I had promised yesterday, this is the first of four poems to be published here this month:

I Spat in Death’s Face

I spat in Death’s face,
Because of my coming fate;
It ran down without a trace,
But still it did not halt my hate;
He stood simply in His place,
As the seconds climbed to eight;
Then I felt great unease in my shoes,
Right when His patience He did lose.

I spat in Death’s face,
Then He had me by the arm;
He took me to this place,
Which gave me great alarm;
It was where He takes many a bad case,
And subjects them to great harm;
It was hot, and underground, and, well,
This was the place that we called Hell.

I spat in Death’s face,
So now I faced a trial;
It was a most peculiar case,
The evidence flowed in like the Nile;
I greeted the judge with “Your Grace,”
But he ignored me all the while;
Then the verdict did come in: “Guilty,”
Since one sin had made my soul filthy.

I spat in Death’s face,
And the penalty was a century;
A hundred years in this place,
Much worse than any penitentiary;
I was oft reminded of my disgrace,
And visitors were barred from entry;
And the heat and the fire-- O! The fire!
I certainly drew Providence’s ire!

And now I sit, and look about,
And feel only the grief and pain;
Flames lick my feet, and I shout,
Suffering is all that can reign;
These fires of Hell, which never go out,
Can crack even the strongest will atwain;
You, reader, don’t wrap my crime in lace:
I spat in Death’s face!

If it looks somewhat familiar, that's because the rhyme scheme was inspired by Os Lusíadas-- ABABABCC. I never bothered with any kind of meter (I believe it hinders any poem-writer's creativity); my style is repetition of a central theme.

I'll see you next Saturday with the next poem. --If I interrupted your season premiere, I apologize.

Good night, and good luck.