chrisbryz

The Quiet, The Insane, and The Guillotine.

After a mere minute of listening to their garrulous talk,

their vainglory had no place for the wretchedly involved,

These wretches cared not for the words,

but only for the melodies from the caterwauls that they had caused,

by a guillotine of sorts, like an anvil in the shape of a sword,

with a swinging repetition a lasso would have,

before falling around the neck of a horse.

Deeply harmonized, yet subtly diminished

were the spaces in between the sounds of the carnage:

the bashing of bones, the ripping of flesh; it was a mess,

like mangoes crashing through canvas.

What separated each painful cry were these brief moments of silence.

It replaced their continuous pompous prose,

and as those brief silent moments began to grow,

they were given to the squawking crows.

It was with the crush of each skull

followed by the severance of each limb,

one-by-one reminders accumulated to the others:

to speak out of line again will be followed by dismemberment.

 

 

 

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This entry was published on January 30, 2017 at 5:12 am. It’s filed under Death, Fiction, Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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