Challenge
Challenge of the Week CCVI
You've found yourself standing at the gates of Hell, and you're given a typewriter and one page waiting in it. You have one short poem to either keep you out, or shove you in.
empire
open your fiery gates, fools
allow my creeping corruption to caress you deep inside
and bear yourselves to the darkness that resides within
until your light seeps out between my clenched fingers
whispering like coals tossed about in the tide
open your fiery gates, fools
so i may sit upon my rightful throne
with naught but a wicked smile splitting my face and a
lopsided crown of broken bones perched upon my skull
at long last, fools, your ruler has come home