by Ianfe
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Description
The door, tied to the wall,
makes room for my intrusion.
I irrupt on the house:
the arguments of an empty furniture
- the bed had yelled at the armoire -
fall silent for the breath of my step.
I look down on a table,
its black top next to the doorstep,
and see the note.
A greeting card,
the artificial sweetener,
plays the corpse of my passion.
That love, the eternal love,
has hidden under the ceiling,
burrowed into plaster, crack and stone,
it's escaped my "sanity".
And the paper,
an escaping explanation that leaves no promises,
is witness to my sorrow.
That damned greeting card,
torn in rags under my hateful hands,
has permeated the floor,
the furniture and walls.
That damned explanation,
and its lack of promises,
has soaked the house,
my poisoned home.
I turn on the door,
and plead for its posture:
it knots itself and traps the memories.
Comments (8)
experimental
It looks like it's time to open that door and let some fresh air in. I love this little piece of writing though.
tony_br22
hello, excellent work
adri_n
I love the Sylvia Plath style of using the title as part of the piece. You must be a fan.
cagewench
Well-written and yes, it's got a definate Plath influence (incidentally, PLath is my fav poet). I did note one typo though - "irrupt" but that happenes to all of us :)
Ianfe
Hey, guys! Thanks for the comments... but incidentally... From dictionary.com - Word of the Day for Monday May 24, 2004 ------- Irrupt ih-RUHPT, intransitive verb: 1. To burst in forcibly or suddenly; to intrude. 2. (Ecology) To increase rapidly in number.
Wolfspirit
Written well, from what I can tellalthough to let you know of what I felt was sadness when I read this Thanks for sharing
netsia
I like this alot....I understand the card part. I had someone leave a golden feather at my door one day. It did not have the meaning for me as it did for him. I tried to return it and he would not take it....because it is sacred it is in my house but not with the intent that was planned with the giving. Every time I see the feather, I wince. It should have meaning and doesn't. V
aztek
Even to my un-English mind, this is beautifully written. I didn't know this side of you, but now I understand your visual art better. Thanks for sharing, Ian :)