...habit...

[goldenrod]

"habit"

In the belly of the beast,
I dream rave.

Commit a thousand wrongs.
Die hopeless, espousing a thousand lost causes!

Each time, I wield the knife,
perform my own autopsy.

Weigh a blackened heart.

Try to salvage, a withered soul.

Lest formaldehyde claim it!


goldenrod.

[blazeofglory]

Fabulous. This poem has something called poetic, in that it is deepening in sensibility and is of course full of images.

[goldenrod]

(blazeofglory)

All is an ever increasing clutter of interconected scenes. Each running into the next with ever increasing speed, until all becomes a blur of incomprehension...

goldenrod.

[tattooed wonder]

very well written... I like the bit about wielding a knife and performing your own autopsy...

lovely..

[firefangled]

Very dark and biting, the words pour like mollasses over one another

[goldenrod]

(tattooed wonder)

"Performing my own autopsy"...only fair, as I have helped perform so many autopsies on others!

goldenrod.

[goldenrod]

(firefangled)

It is a dark piece, end product of no turning back.


goldenrod.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Didn't strike me as forcefully as it did all the others. It read like a series of confessional statements with no over-arching music.

[goldenrod]

(PrinceMyshkin)

Music..."Night on a bald mountain."

The "habit" referred to was the numerous autopsies of young children which, to my suddenly realized horror, were becoming a matter of routine. It was later that the "routine" was shown to be a mask...a calus, subconciously put in place, but torn off when the nightmares started to come.

goldenrod.