I knew the park was not a place to play -
its statues leered at me, the grass was dry
and scratched grazed knees. It made me cry
afraid its gates would only lead one way
and when I left, it would be evil home
that I went back to, where tears would be sweet
instead of salt. Carpet beneath my feet
would squelch like mud, or dissipate like foam.
I hung about outside for what seemed years.
Then shrugged, slipped in. The statues seem quite tame
as demons go; I've learned to play their game
so well, I am the creature of their fears
scratches their flesh and mocks them to their face.
Once you accept it, hell's a charming place