Inferno

He lived in chains no lock could break,
Each breath he drew, a grave mistake.
The air was thick with guilt and smoke,
Walls painted with sins no fire could cloak.

A prison cell of blood and stone,
He cried to gods who left him alone.
Hope was a blade beneath his skin,
He wore his grief like a second sin.

He clawed at walls with blistered hand,
To paint a truth he’d never command.
Each line collapsed, each color lied,
The art he dreamed of shriveled and died.

His voice grew thin, his vision black,
The masterpiece turned on him, cracked.
The canvas drank what life remained,
And left behind a soul unchained.

The ground split wide with silent scorn,
As if hell knew the day he was born.
The flames rose slow, without a sound,
And claimed him whole beneath the ground.