Poetry Lessons: Murdering to Dissect

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A knife goes down my back, from the top of my head to the bottom of my spine;

it's fun really;

it's fun to be able to dissect a paper until the only one murdered is:

you

And as I over analyze it, I don't feel my blood pump to my wings and fly; I don't see the sun of knowledge replace the moon of ignorance; and I can't think of the reason why; if anything I feel

isolated,

alone,

deserted.

Comprehension flees from the room and I am left behind.

What a cruel fate, it is true, to be abandoned by a poem you love. Perhaps I learned a different poetry lesson. Perhaps.






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