Ice Pick

The pocket watch twirls slowly

Hanging from slackened fingers

 

Its polished silver finish glistens

Catching the bright lights and throwing them

 Into the darkened eyes of the occupants

 

The chain can barely be felt

Through the fashionable black leather gloves

 

And the owner wonders, silently, to himself

How do we keep finding ourselves back here?

Why must we always answer that call?

 

Each number is ornate and beautiful

Someone cherished each moment it took

To create the delicate swirls and curves

Each of these possess

 

Just as each gear must have been loved

By the smith that placed them there

Each one given a purpose and task to complete

Much like a proper person

 

The watch snaps closed and the man

Clears his throat to get the rooms attention

 

“It is time that we begin the procedure.”

He says to the audience seated in the theater

Circling the operating floor

 

He walks to the table with the restrained patient,

The sedated sleeping deranged criminal

 

 And thinks, ‘This was never a proper person,

He never could have been, but now we can make him one.’

Donning a confident smile the doctor is ready to begin

 

He then turns to the instrument table

And folds open the box on top, revealing

The contents resting on the black velvet lining

Sitting so calmly in their perfection

 

The tools polished silver finish glistens

As his gloved hand lifts one from its place

Examining the gentle curves of the handle

And the fine sharpened point of the proboscis

 

His hand never flinches as he places this point

Next to the eye of the sedated man

 

He cherished every moment in between

The swing and the loud clack that emitted

When the hammer struck the end of the tool

 

No one in the audience even shifts at the sound

Or protests as the second pick is placed

 

He is the smith so the placement cannot be wrong

And he has given these tools their purpose

The task of making a proper person

 

He looks down into the face of the patient

Removing both of the bloody picks so carefully

And marvels at the blank face resting

On the operating table below him

 

‘This is why we answer the call,’ he thinks,

Silently, to himself,

‘This is why we keep coming back here.

To bring calm to the ones who refuse.’

 

The doctor smiles as he wipes his gloves clean

Thinking, ‘To leave the face of resistance

As blank as the face of a mannequin.’

02/23/2012

Reviews

[CHRIS ANDES]

it blows me another unique ideas
=]

[BlueDreams]

Very great manifestion of your thought .. Mind blowing .. :-)

[Lily Mae]

Omg this is raw and powerful.. Recently someone told me they are still doing this procedure.. It scares me to death.. You described it so perfectly.. wow...x

[Mockingbird]

this is a chilling narrative poem. the details are meticulous enabling us to picture the scene. this sounds like a scene from 'one flew over the cuckoo's nest' but in the gothic mid 19th century. excellent work!

[Robbie~xoxo~]

Wow! Fantastic work here!...A thought provoking piece...building an eerie mystery with every line, as it captivated my attention until the very end. Nice write!

[Ruth]

This is amazing work!
Fantastic description, the whole piece maintains its flow perfectly, lures the reader into thought provoking atmospheres xoxo

[...]

Wow! What I like best about poetry and other kinds of writing is that it is a celebration of the freedom of expression. A writer can't be silenced. In words that express "resistance", one can witness its existence. Your words are powerfully observant and subtly expressive. The narration is excellent, the descriptions are vivid, and your philosophical word choice is infinitely poetic. An extremely rewarding read.