for Elizabeth Weber
Call your painting what you will, I can’t help
but see these two cloaked poets, hooded to
protect their faces from fire, cringe at yelps
and screams of those suffering lusters who
hover in shadows, that second plateau
a broiling trail of bright lava leading
down to scarred, futile levels, Inferno
so intense its descending fiery rings
appear encased in jagged ice. Warn me
with your vision, artist. Point out my soul
among that huddled mass, framed misery
of faceless creatures, hopeless far below.
Guide me with your brilliant strokes. Lead me from
vast sight of hell to life beyond my tomb.
Roger Armbrust
January 31, 2010
