She was sitting on the seat of the train
facing a man presumably reading a newspaper
held in front of him,
and noticed first those eyes—
black pits within thick horn-rimmed spectacles—
not looking down at the paper but staring at her,
straight ahead into her face;
pupils like small dead bugs caught within the glass—
not fluttering,
motionless and frozen,
fixed in her direction,
feasting upon her.
The gleaming glass reflected her own horrified image.
She glanced down upon the paper,
held upside-down between his fingers,
and her eyes traveled lower
to what she knew would be there—and it was—
hanging limp,
glistening like a grotesque swollen finger.
All criticism appreciated
Comments
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It's been a long time since I've picked out random pieces of poetry on here to read and comment, but I'm glad I picked this one. The part I love the most is the second stanza, with the metaphore about the dead bugs - I simply loved that one. But, overall, this piece really show quite a disturbing image. I just wanted to look away and stop reading by the last lines, what a pervert!
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