The Pain Cones

Have you seen the pain cones
Hanging in the cave?
In a close yet distant world
That even God can’t save.

The pain cones are stalactites,
But not of dripping stone.
Curved surface, vertex funneled tight,
A hollow brittle bone.

Every odd millennium,
Through the pain cone’s circular plane,
The ceiling plops titanium
Into the cone of pain.

The titan orb an uncrushable curse,
The cone’s surface, impregnable rocks.
Through the vertex the orb must pass
In blinding, shrieking paradox.

It takes the orb ten sickly eons to pass,
In sixty epochs it finally clears,
And all the while the pain cone moans,
The process repeats, a new orb appears.

See the pain cone’s unthinkable, hideous frown,
A pitiful grimace etched in the sky.
And though it cannot make a sound,
It prays in silent scream to die.

Have you seen the pain cones?
So very far away.
No rocket ship is fast enough
To take us there to save the day.

Have you seen the pain cones
In the grainy not-agains?
Would you brave the turgid cave,
The endless graves of now-and-thens?

You would, you have, you did, it’s done.

You’ve glimpsed the pain cones through the mist,
In blistered flashes bright and grind.
In this past minute’s fevered fist,
The pain cones exist…in your mind.

echhhhhh! but so sublimely and delicately the cut: both ways.

Now to get it right, as the piece de resistance, -rare, or well done?

Well done! (would p refer not two, but to ogling hungry eyes , to, may as well, rare.)

at the behest of.