For my English class we had to write six different kinds of poems. This one is a "personal reaction to a place." I read it out loud in class and I think people were caught off-guard. Success.

By Elizabeth Gosney

Everything brown.
Hell is not red with flames,
for it is brown.
I have seen it.
I have lived it.

And Hell,
It is brown.
Four walls blue.
A bedroom in Hell is not black with soot, 
for it is blue.
I have seen it. 
I have lived it.

I flew to Hell on metal wings
in a polyester seat,
eating a bag of stale peanuts.
I arrived in Hell and it was cold,
nearly frozen.
Fitting, I think.

Before, I had lived as a troll in the forest
where everything was green.
I would pick berries, squeezing the purple juice
into my throat between my tongue and cheek.
I picked another, a defensive thorn
slid into my flesh.
The red juice squeezed out between my fingertips.

There are no berries in Hell.
Only brown.
But I would take the red without the purple there, 
if only just to feel like a troll again.

Everything brown.
Except in the pit. There it is copper.
Precious metal.
Filthy lucre.
The reason for Hell to exist.

When the copper fails, Hell will stay.
The demons will move on.
The brown will stay.
The blue walls will fade.
The brown will stay.

Everything brown.