Maybe,
not if,
but just a humble maybe,
there is no fire in hell?
Neither tools of torture or torment,
Nor screams of agony.
Lacking flame, which burns, at least,
No blaze within touch or reach.
But only,
a numb and desolate void.
There, nothing to see or nothing to tell,
since his absence is meant to be hell.
The absence of
the creator of finesse and delicacy.
The absence of
the painter of impeccable beauty.
And maybe, just maybe,
paradise is,
healing rest after countless grinding hills,
Your house is here, right next to his,
to him you belong, one dearest friend.
What joyful bliss to spend with him,
to spend without pause or end.
As compelling as it is,
Like striking a cord deep within.
The question restlessly begs,
Do you long for his invitation?