Crimson, Chernikov
A Poem by
Yet Invented
What counts as a trophy? Victory? Vanity? Success? Failure? Memories?
Crimson, Chernikov.
Pull up a stool, let us chat.
What's that you're wearing? A hat?
That's no hat,
Son.
I'll show you a hat.
It's made of cotton and leather,
A bow on the tethering dip.
Sits. Just like you, on the stool.
I believe the feather -
Behind the black ribbon,
Is the pure white from a cannibal,
Living in the forests. Still a man.
Still a monster.
Have I shown you the tip?
Well here , son! On the lip;
A patch of crimson.
Brought from the killing fields.
© 2009 Yet Invented
Author's Note
The overall 'rhythm' (there's not really much consistent meter) and the idiolect of the voice - does it suit the abstract topic?
Reviews
Its about a man who has been in war? Is it not?
Posted 14 Years Ago
1 of 1 people found this review constructive.
That's very good yet rather morbid, though I may have got entirely the wrong impression
Posted 15 Years Ago
That's very good yet rather morbid, though I may have got entirely the wrong impression
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2 Reviews
Added on February 4, 2009
Author
Yet Invented Westergate, West Sussex, United Kingdom
About
I am unashamedly obsessed with both philosophy and science fiction. I like my science laced with a few toxic droplets of creativity and moral conundrum, and I'm pretty much a lazy philosophy student w..
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