Challenge
Challenge of the Month XXXIX
Write a short poem about your own private Hell. The tortured who reigns gets 100 big ones. Winner will be picked by Prose. Go.
You asked what it is
It is not the rain.
It is not a deep well, or
anything else dark or dank.
It is not ash and flame.
It is green spring with unacknowledged birdsong,
applause for someone staring into space,
flawless sentences misconstrued,
love that doesn’t count.
It is habitual coffee, untasted,
a once-beloved book, unremembered,
a birthday text, unanswered,
perpetually waiting,
untrusted and feared.
19
6
15