'Yamo', by Yucheng Tao

Where?
I shout repeatedly, but receive no reply.
A black door, ominous and unmarked.
I cannot remember how I arrived.
A voice echoes from beyond the door,
but the voice is not human—
too hollow, too resonant,
like sound traveling through liquid metal.
Behind me, darkness clings to a large suspended rock.
There is nowhere to go, nowhere to escape from.
The air is thick with sulfur,
burning my nostrils, coating my tongue with metallic bitterness.
Before me stretches a fiery lake,
its surface writhing with flames.
Figures writhe within the blaze—people of all ages, all appearances.
Their screams spread in some unfathomable way.
Their fears pierce my heart like a sword.
My mind, vivid as the burning lake,
recalls Anbar Province’s sand,
once golden, now forever stained blood-red.
Beside the lake stands a carousel of horrors:
rusty iron blades spin atop its frame. Is it hell?
A grim, disembodied voice emanates from within.
From the shadows emerges a figure, cloaked entirely in red.
He tells me it is called Yamo and tells me to forget my damn PTSD.
Because I’ve been here. The voice, like red silk floating,
called me here—it says it is good.
I try to say, No! I was in Chicago! Just two days ago!
I was walking down Michigan Avenue!
You died. Like a wreck-stilled body, soul slipping into the ether,
warmth still clinging to the skin, a ghost of breath lingering.
You don’t know you died.
He tells me the outside world is drowning in human waste,
the Earth is warming, the seven trumpets are sounding.
It’s good in here.
This is not hell.
There are more fresh vegetables than in hell,
more magic shows, a place where you can be man, be woman,
and savor the composite beauty of love.
You have no sin of becoming—You just died in the war.
You can enjoy this place without having to ride the death carousel,
like Little Mustache, spinning 700 times a day.
I want to leave.
I long to return home,
to ride the power of the black birds bursting within me,
but I am trapped here.
Behind me, endless swirling shadows of madness,
before me, countless sinners screaming,
like dying whores wrapped in their torment.
Home still exists.
Where is homeland?
The Earth is polluted now.
Should I stay here?
In the darkness, no answers seem to come,
only me and the void.

Yucheng Tao, originally from China, is a songwriting student in Los Angeles. His work has appeared in The Lake (UK), Red Ogre Review (UK), Cathexis Northwest Press, NonBinary Review (including an interview), Apocalypse Confidential, Ink Nest, The Arcanist, Down in the Dirt, The Creativity Webzine, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Synchronized Chaos, Poetry Potion, Moonstone Art Center, Spillwords, Wingless Dreamer and Literary Yard.