The Eleventh Circle Poem by Paul Savio Hearn

This is a Hell of sorts; the eleventh circle
The tenth being Loss, here does not dwell far
But rather shares a doorway more entrance than exit
A chamber cursed with windows and a view:
Of missed opportunity; of success well deserved
It's the hell of Conscious Failure -
The doors bolted shut


In the door lies a peephole; a backwards spyglass
That shows everything afar, though the vision is bleak,
Only an obscured and depressing image of the future,
When straining the eye, one is able to see
And confess therein lies a twin chamber -
Wretched room of pure Failure

There is no hope in this hell, lest it be false
A forever-spinning hourglass in the corner,
A key made of candle wax for a steel lock
Secured to a trapdoor in the ceiling, need I go on?
This excludes the solitary ray of hope
That hangs from said trapdoor by way of a rope,
When tugged it feels strong rather than loose,
And my cunning side suddenly comes to great use
As I fashion a noose
And I exit this hell
And all will be well