A blur of nonsense and riddles.

This beautiful release into some sort of tragedy;
Is it not the kind of which you might need some sympathy?
The final fall into the hole of darkness and despair;
I wonder what sort of nightmarish creatures I'll find lurking there.

A poet, a picture, a postcard from the depths of Hell;
Nothing's going right, wish you were here, we are not well.
This labyrinthe, a maze of which there is no exit to;
And still I'm lost under a sign saying that we should sue.

A sunset or three the day later, perhaps, a angelic sign;
Fourteen grapes fall from the ground, is this the vine?
Maybe a person of your stature would consider it a fake;
And maybe the Devil is a real playwright, for Heaven's sake.