If Hell is real, it must have weather - an atmosphere. Particles in flux, constantly moving through it. We’ve been told of the smothering heat - less about the tiny pockets of blistering cold.
 
Do the demons seek shelter when the neon pink stalactites fall from the cavern’s ceiling? When the pure white twisters bunch to fists - pummeling the seeds of next year’s harvest. Will the Hellberries survive this?
 
If I were them, I’d drag my yellow knuckles across the ground, too. I’d offer my ribs, rubbed raw - a deep red. The color of dried blood before it turns black.
 
The more I think about it, the more it sounds like Earth. Ooo baby, do you know what that’s worth?
 
Hellberries
31 x 42"
Acrylic on Canvas