Nightmares on the Gentlest Tier of Hell

by Frank Hubeny

This tossing makes me wonder why
regrets won’t let me get some sleep
without those nightmares from the deep.
I would shed tears. I’d even cry
if that would help. Regardless, I
can’t face these twisted memories.
I’d have to run off on my knees,
but could I even find my way,
the one I lost that lazy day,
or days, when I served my own ease?

In case it isn’t obvious, the “I” in the poem is an imaginary character in a mild region of hell trying to get some rest.  I pray this “I”  would not be me.  I pray he not be you either.

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