Hell is being
Painfully whole
And aware of what’s wrong
Till it kills us

Like a poem one says
Without semblance
Of the deepest beliefs
They can hide

By questioning hope
Fairly bold
When bargaining hurt
Always honest

Or worse yet now
Begging questions
Much harder than prose
Ever asked

But behind each page
Barely turned
After writing this fate
Soon exhausted

From exhuming dreams
Fear had buried
Beneath emptier days
Spent alive

Leaving graves upturned
Right at home
Where another lost night
Beckons shovels

Which disturbs each hole
Moving soil
Seeking death’s fair share
Far below

What’s concealing light
Once entombed
Long before such words
Cast their shadow

And my age held proof
There was meaning
Through our passing time
Being felt

Until happiness
Ceased to exist
Trading twisted vows
For what’s easy

Where normal stole
Broken pieces
Still better off split
Than intact.

• J. Pigno