A brittle stone carving of a gargoyle stares at me
from across a small courtyard of mushy fallen leaves.
I don't know why I'm pissed at this gargoyle,
with his two beady, moss-covered eyes
and each and every pointy bone of spine
sticking into the air like resolve.
I want to grasp his skull in my clutch
and squeeze until a fine dust puffs out
from between my red and shaking fingers.
I'd watch as each particle floats to the mud,
stomp the grit into the earth, mash leaves and dust
into a sludge.
But I don't do any of this.
Instead I sit on a bench rough as sandpaper
and cold as the dusk I hiked out in.
I sit and wait for moss to cover my eyes.
I wait for my bones to pierce out my skin.
A contest entry
- Not For The Weak II by Immortal Obscurity.
875 points, ended July 3, 2008, 13 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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I think 'But I don't do any of this' is a perfect break between the two thoughts, you immediately know the frame of reference has changed. That is what poetry should do, move you along... Congrats on the Bronze.
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The Gargoyles made me think of the stautes from Hunch Back Of Noterddame the movie. HAHA! Anyways, well done with the imagery. I enjoyed this piece.
Mylee -
Hmmm... Nice imagery we have here. In fact, your entire poem played out in my head like a movie, so major props to you for that! I have no idea what the subject of this write is, but there's something lovely about the ambiguity.
Technically, the line, "But I don't do any of this" seemed a little harsh for the rest of the poem, but that was the only major issue I had. Thank you for entering, and good luck.
Laura
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:)
very very nice... sadly, as comical as the thought of feeling this way is, it's also a very honest emotion. Who doesn't feel that way occasionally? GB
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