Idle Hands

The endless halls of hell are shelved with boxes upon boxes of them:

spindly protrusions pointing nowhere all at once.

To him, it's fun! He loves the whir of twiddled thumbs,

the shade of palms, he tallies up the souls he's sold while just

as many fortunes never told watch on like wilting wallflowers.

No, not wilting, no, not even watching; just idling in boxes.

He takes one out and interlocks it with his own,drops another,

smiles at how it flops upon the floor & doesn't even bother

trying, his playthings so complacent doing absolutely nothing,

no longer even dying.