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Now, back to my box story/poem.
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The pain became less noticeable the further I ran across the fiery path of hell. It was still present, but I think that after a while the body must get used to it, if it doesn’t die first. Something was keeping me alive, if alive is the right word to use. I couldn’t help wondering whether the devil did know if I was there. Of course he must have done. I was in his lair. I don’t think anyone gets into the devil’s lair without his knowledge or permission.
The sound of my feet slapping against the ground rang louder in my ears the deeper into hell I went, and the smell of my own burning flesh was nauseating. A chunk of my arm flesh dropped onto the floor, leaving the bone in my arm on display. I carried on running, convinced that even if the devil knew I was there, I could somehow outrun him.
Day seven, I can smell the burning
Of my own flesh and
Hear the slap slap noise
Of my tattered feet
Running through Satan’s lair