Emo Scene Community

Poseidon , Zeus and Hades- sons of the former king, to Zeus was the heavens, for freedom did he bring. To Poseidon, the trident and the seas vast, for his mind was washed with a horrid past. Hades, the oldest of the heroic three, hell his lot, yes, the underworld was to be his infinite spot. Henceforth down, down down Hades fell, to his new abode, known as Hell. O, the brazen brimstone and tumultuous and taunting fire, the flames cackling like razors upon the strings of a lyre. Oh, Clymenus, thou art more victim than a vile devil, for thou keepest the balances of life and death level. Yea, with an invisibility helm, death and decay is thy new home, thy realm. Upon the shore of the River Styx toil the fugitives of death, wandering, without Charon's payment, for eternity without breath. A coin lacking under the shade's wordless tongue, o, how it meant this fate for both old and young! Hermes, light of foot and fast on wing, to this shore, the dead he doth bring. Behold- the River Styx, lifeless, chilling and churning, for once passed, to life there is little chance of returning. With its nauseating silence and its grey, necrillant hue, it is a troubling, terrifying and terrific place to view. Those deadly waters! With the sparkle of death they cripple and curl, like the musty pages of an ancient book they unfurl. From its shade-silhouetted shore, to it's cold clenching carnivorous core, it serves as death's watery door. Charon, his stern and heartless face, his few words- sharper than any mace! His eyes, deep burnet and knotted like tree bark, a most unforgiving sight from which to embark. A shrewd and lonely man, an obolus is what he doth charge, in order to be ferried upon "The Wandering Howl"- his barge. His chiseled chin- hidden by a raspy beard, of his presence many are dimmed and feared. A griseous pole resides in his tarnished hand, so that his boat might across the river be fanned. At the end of The River Styx and Charon's ride, yes, not to entomb all sight is the other side..... Hearken! Upon the opposite shore, hear the bone rattling three-headed roar, of Cerebus- the Hound of Hell; tremble at his senticous yell! His body, it moveth with quaking heft, incising the ground to scrimmage and cleft! Argent and exacting art his corralling claws, as they emerge, like smoke of a fire from his paws. He lets no mortal in- for his love of flesh will not admit any mortal man to enter, few have a living permit. O, Cererbus is Hade's mongrel mutt and loyal guard, so that from Hades presence the unworthy are barred! Proceeding thus, from the harsh haemal howl and the growl of the three heads, to the thread of fate, a tightrope of trial, to judgment are the dead led. The acts of one's life when about the Earth they did roam will cast ballot as to a sheckled shade's new 'bode or home. Those who lived a life vile, those variest- in Tartarus they shall toil! Alas, to the Elysian Fields would go those who were to Greece loyal! Ah, Elysian Plains and Fields, an underground paradise, those who gain entrance paid a mortal and morbid price. With the sounds of a gently rippling rill, the inhabitants hearts are bound to thrill. The air, twirling in a decadent ballet of the Anemoi Gods, the Gods are in apporval, Terpsichore smiles upon such and nods. Music of such seraphic voices and notes, gliding through the body like waters are by boats. The notes, they seemingly hold hands and kiss thy ears. like the soft, warming tone of a lover's faithful tears. The blades of grass- long, noble and uplifted like a head with pride, the smaragdine hue, a proof that those blades were true and tried. Elysian- an edenic enigma of endless pleasure, laughter and smiles shining like an arcane and Plutus treasure. The resting place of those loyal and true, those honest and undefiled, those who by greed, lust, hate and lies, by unfit jealousy were not guiled. The very aura of the peace is as of honest, virgin snow, untainted, for with the pastels of the past and the tint of pain, they aren't painted. The soldiers that there reside, with honor and ambition as high as Mount Zion, with bravery and skill that would match the tenacity of Judah, the Lion! Fields of flowers, fraught with Adonis, Allysum and Wreath of Bay- the perfect petals, never hanging themselves in dismay! Those fields are like a symphonic orgy of color and delight, such mystical and magical vistas are thus in their blessed sight. A land of perpetual pleasure, time the Moirae cannot touch or tamper, yea, a bower of blessing that no thread of time can shorten or damper! Like the Isle of the Blest, there go the heroic best! Yonder, within dark, dingy and doomed caves- look! Tartarus with its Titan slaves! For the former Titan Tyrants, after the war was waged were in Tartarus like emplemaniaic imps bound and caged. A wall of Bronze, a reminder of the former golden rule surrounds, keeping the unruly and irefull Titans in, like mongrel hounds. If, by an Olympic chance, by some rare and mystical mistake, out the prisoners do riot and away they do break, lo- by a threefold curtain of infinite night they are thus restricted, for they cannot return to life, for from their thrones they were evicted. The hearts of Titan's, once elegant and strong, like the wings of a bat now beat, for they are downtrodden, aimless and yet jealous since their Titanic defeat. The air within is rotten and dank, Marahic waters of wormwood, ever tart- how it trickles through the crevices, like tears through a broken and battered heart. Although they were once might and royal, they are now feckless, and must toil, like the roots of weeds fighting for soil. The shrieking shrill of strings, out of agony sings.