poetry

“… why hell’s a good place to find yourself …”

First of all, let us be frank:

the great thing about hell, about knowing you’re there,

is it can only get worse, it can’t get

better.

And so given this fact, and accepted this truth,

it then becomes a game

of spotting the others you see all around you

and then wondering why they

find themselves in hell just like you.

And the reality is that: it’s a game where they call you:

where they beckon and seduce

you and reckon and consider

you and flatter and receive

you and gently attempt to pursue

you until that very moment

when you lose all hope.

Which is when hell does really become

the place you should be:

without hope you just begin to play the

game that the rest have been playing all this time:

the rhyming without reason of

the pain of cruel denial.

Don’t reject me any more;

don’t make me believe.

Just heave me offshore in a curious little breeze:

I’m flotsam to your message

lost in a bottle: don’t forget that too readily,

mind: even flotsam can stain

the pain of a beach where lovers once walked hand in hand.

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