I wrote this in college at eighteen or nineteen years old. Note Sheol is the place of the dead in ancient Hebrew. Sheol There used to be others here, once. But that was a long time ago. They told me pretty stories, fables, Things I have never felt, Touched, heard, or tasted. She, I think she was my mother, Spoke of color and light, She spoke of stars above, A world without pain so constant You forget it is there, But it was all a lie. There is no light, Just this suffocating darkness. I trip and stumble, My fingers are oozing again. I placeRead More →