Speaking into the void feels like drowning in deep water
death with no hope of rebirth
decay, bones, rust
but: There’s hope for your poetry if you hit some clichéd themes!
And so the blood rises, the heart swells
you rise from the darkness, you’re walking the stone path
towards recognition, like a cat with a fish in its mouth.
That’s a good poem…my new dream is to write a short story that incorporates all of these 26 elements:
http://willesdenherald.blogspot.com/2008/02/common-faults-in-short-stories.html
O! My life is a dark pit of blackest darkness
My cat is rusty and whispers of death
The poetry of my fish sinks like a stone into the water
We shall all be bone one day
But my heart’s blood sings of birth
Over the yowls of my rusty cat
Because Emily is great
I drank some poisoned tea out of a granite cup.
First, my heart slowed its beating — it felt like
iron in water, my blood a school of slowing fish,
swimming toward the bottom of a pool at dusk.
My bones scraped the concrete floor of this
mock-abyss, this shallow grave of my imagining.
The reality was too horrific to allow. Flailing
and spitting up and screaming out. And the dark.
So dying, I dreamed (I think I
dreamed) that I was a cat.
But instead of meows, all that came out
was “Poetry! Poetry! Poetry!”
(feed me)
Oh to be reborn. If only I –