Poetry Dies on Friday

 

Poetry fades a little on Thursdays.

It’s failing breath

can’t be heard above a whisper,

ignored by most and unattended

by the rest, admired by a few

timid minds for its beauty

and reviled for its grace.

It’s left to die on Friday;

Saturday’s morning sun

can’t revive the words

sacrificed in an empty temple

on an alter wet with

last week's verse.

 

Friday has arrived,

time to forget the disappointments

of yesterday's failed experiments.

Failure is part of the fun, you know;

I will remember that when I think of you

tonight and when I curse you tomorrow

and I will, too, curse you.

I’ll curse you with every breath

and every thought

and every step I take away from

the pain and anxiety

I feel when I stare at your empty face,

A blank gaze, a soulless form

consumed with self and conceit. 

Reviews

[Kesch (Finding Julia)]

such an emotional read here, nicely expressed though

[jacob erin-cilberto]

this is almost like a love affair expressed in Good Friday terms, only there is not resurrection, just bitterness and self loathing...much like in the Police song "Every Breath you Take?

quite liked this...is the title "dies" or "does"?

j.

[James]

Supposed to be Dies...thanks. And, you nailed it, self-loathing. I'm trying to catch that writing bug again. This is one I wrote a while back