Littleton by RW

Littleton's fun was to torture his son
The hearth fire roared but of heat there was none
space where old angers restore, cold, unwon
paths worn ancient scorn, past hurts redone

old man clutched his cloak of stained and worn dun
sweat poured small rivers, he could not outrun
grave in back yard guarded by Littleton
if death is pain's surcease he's just begun

pokers in fireplace, glowed red overdone
knew flesh cauterized meat spit slowly spun
until eyes grew film and life was undone
tearful and fearful all sanity shun

long red beard assures he's feared, not outdone
though daytimes are dreadfilled, his nightmares stun
waking hours haunted towers rerun
murder isn't easy when it's your son.

In a frenzy, he smashed his door to run
he found naught outside, no stars, moon, or sun
Littleton screamed kneeling clutching his gun
Hell is first lonely, each made for just one