Personal Hell

A song may be sung,

But may not yet be sprung

On the tip of her tongue,

Whisper farewell to her young.

In thought of no return,

Might she watch the devil burn.

Nothing of her real concern.

But she may still yearn.

Wanting to see,

But never to be

in the depths of her plea,

a fiery sea.

Beneath the dirt,

Filled with the hurt,

Might she alert

Might she assert

The other ones

A million hot suns

People with guns

Unfaithful nuns

Down in her personal hell.