Pockets of Hell

They bear

The same face,

Pinched and disconnected,

Cans clutched

Like child’s toys

Lines carved into sallow cheeks

Eyes looking out

At a past too

Much to bear,

I used to believe

Hell was a place outside

Oceans of coruscating fire,

Souls writhing in


But I know different,

It’s a thing we create,

Small pockets of


We step over on the way to

Kinder places,

I’ve been there,

And I’m not smug

For having escaped,

Kindly to those trapped inside,

But I watch someone

Talking about white male

Privilege as she glances

At her phone,

Sips coffee from a branded cup,

Walking past those of us,

Former and current


Of Hell and I wonder what

Her version resembles,

And whether it

Looks like Hell to her

At all.


2 thoughts on “Pockets of Hell

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