Out of My Senses

My eyes mock me, refusing to reveal what must truly be there.  The Gates of Hell rise before me, tears and sweat dripping off the creatures falling down, falling up the doors.

I can smell their fear; or is it my own?  It tingles in my nose and the sweat standing in the air makes me freeze.

The drops touch my forehead, an ironic blessing, and tickle my arms on their way to the ground.  The caress lingers and they laugh in my ears.

It is so silent: too silent for this scene, this place.  Only the trickling of raindrops breaks through the invisible sound barrier and I open my mouth to scream, to crash into reality.

I taste the metal on my tongue and I can't help but swallow.  It is sharp, acidic, and cruel.  It bites me back and I can taste the horrors.

My senses tell me yes, but this cannot be true.

The bronze sculpture stares back, mocking.