deepundergroundpoetry.com
What It Was Like Before He Died
He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.
A misanthropy.
She set the kettle to the fire and waited.
Long, drawn out stories of the self are evident.
In time.
Broken glass and a hundred regrets make for a tale long suppressed, a much-needed release.
He leaves nothing to the imagination.
A drag, a drag,
an insistence,
a delusion.
Nothing too sane, only the believable.
And with the colors and the waves crashing,
with the rantings and the tears and growlings,
it comes out,
it comes out,
finally, it comes out.
Nothing lasts forever, oh thank god.
She waits because she can't imagine a moment of peace.
Not now, not here.
His words slow as he breaks.
When nothing is left but the guttural,
a refuge taken, a moment shared,
he stares deep into her otherness.
"I see them, I see them, I swear to god I see them!"
To be separate from this visitation,
on the outside looking in, it shatters her hope.
She takes the kettle off the fire and retreats further in,
further in. There is no embrace to burn it away.
And now, alone.
No longer a misanthropy, but merely desperate self-respect.
He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.
A misanthropy.
She set the kettle to the fire and waited.
Long, drawn out stories of the self are evident.
In time.
Broken glass and a hundred regrets make for a tale long suppressed, a much-needed release.
He leaves nothing to the imagination.
A drag, a drag,
an insistence,
a delusion.
Nothing too sane, only the believable.
And with the colors and the waves crashing,
with the rantings and the tears and growlings,
it comes out,
it comes out,
finally, it comes out.
Nothing lasts forever, oh thank god.
She waits because she can't imagine a moment of peace.
Not now, not here.
His words slow as he breaks.
When nothing is left but the guttural,
a refuge taken, a moment shared,
he stares deep into her otherness.
"I see them, I see them, I swear to god I see them!"
To be separate from this visitation,
on the outside looking in, it shatters her hope.
She takes the kettle off the fire and retreats further in,
further in. There is no embrace to burn it away.
And now, alone.
No longer a misanthropy, but merely desperate self-respect.
He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.
Published 2nd Mar 2013
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 2
reading list entries 0
comments 2
reads 860
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
3rd Mar 2013 00:33am
Wow... what a scene! I enjoyed the imagery of the kettle and your use of repetition is really effective. Especially, "A drag, a drag."
I'm a bit confused as to what is going on with the woman character and the man character though. I am curious as to what is going on with the woman especially... Is she or he battling delusions or hallucinations? Is he trying to get her to reveal some long-kept secret?
I'm a bit confused as to what is going on with the woman character and the man character though. I am curious as to what is going on with the woman especially... Is she or he battling delusions or hallucinations? Is he trying to get her to reveal some long-kept secret?
3rd Mar 2013 2:25am
Oh, thank you very much, Shelley Marie. I'm so glad someone enjoyed it.
The poem is about a madness, and the revolutions/devolutions going on in his own self. And the heartbreak she feels when she can't relate, when there is no more retrieval.
Thanks again.
The poem is about a madness, and the revolutions/devolutions going on in his own self. And the heartbreak she feels when she can't relate, when there is no more retrieval.
Thanks again.
