I have no eyes anymore and as usual
I step out on my own. I believe I can still see colors
and faceless strangers like Petals
on a wet black bough
I see the red red
red of a leaf
on a tree, hanging, dying,
Man's conscience is the best
mnemonic device.
Sleight of hand, Blink
of an eye, Piece
of half-eaten cake...
You didn't suffer, didn't even
know.
The blood was smeared all over me
that evening, and your empty space
expanded, surrounded me
until I realized you weren't dead.
I never saw the sunrise after that.
Now sightless, in this half-life,
I sometimes strain to see my reflection
in a mirror;
The features I almost see, I swear,
are of your face.
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3 comments:
Oh. Very interesting! What's all the drama about??
And I don't understand this line:
"Man's conscience is his best
pneumonic device."
Are you sure it's not supposed to be "consciousness"? And even then, what would that mean?
OMG! I did mean mnemonic... I didn't even look it up! I just thought I was right! Lol!
Erg,
So with the new word in place (god dammned HOMOnyms!) those lines should make a little more sense. A person's conscience reminds him, or her, of things...
TyREAL, thanks for the correction!
The poem is really a kind of fragment of a story. I think I've placed enough there to figure what the story is about, mostly.
I'm very happy with it.
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