Media

Media

 

 

 

silent dissent

conversation limited

to a coldcocked series of verbal fists

 

a leader with pistachio brain

uncertain subjects

feel uncomfortable adjectives

 

attached to the aura

as people run

towards the dangling participles 

 

that used to be apartments

home

haven

 

now many are in heaven

purgatory has stricken the objects

of a certain, embellished preposition

 

who is down, up, across, against

into

over

 

I see one light

glowing from a window

still intact

 

the occupant 

writes a poem

then another

 

ponders a last line

suddenly the window is gone

the candle snuffed

 

a poet's carcass

covered in stacks of poems

only those who recover the body

 

may read,

if there is interest

if this life meant what it should

 

hell has no friends

poets have no enemies

insightful bombs

 

explode in metaphors

Dickinson wants to put the parts together

there are bones in her poems

 

she speaks for all of them

especially for the dead poets.

 

 

erin-cilberto

3/6/22

Reviews

[M. J. Smith]

Miss Emily! A beloved sister to a lonely kid...
And perhaps poets have no friends because only they still write truth. Her words have more then just bone in them. There are deadly thorns on those ever blooming roses!

[jacob erin-cilberto]

thank you for your words, M.J.
j.

[Relic]

Who knows how many dead poets have left us in Ukraine. And all for someone who cares more about power than human lives. Many lights are gone. Emily would have never understood such a useless cause.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

No, and she would have spoken out against the slaughter.
thank you, Relic,
j.