Hell is not a burning pit,
but a no man's land.
A vast expanse where you hover
between your heart's desire and despair;
between two mutually satisfying choices,
unable to decide between them.
There's a fire, for sure,
yet not one that burns the skin.
But one of indecision that stills your heart,
leaving you full of a longing unfulfilled.
A wound that leaves no scar
yet forever goes unhealed.
The three-pronged pitchfork is a myth-
though the pricking of your wants
pierces the flesh, drawing no blood.
You're weak from the loss to your soul.
Taking the staircase to your dreams,
knowing, like an escalator, the steps endlessly circulate
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