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Anatomy of a Critic
Anatomy of a Critic
Armed with calipers to measure the sun Beneath a rib-encaged, iambic lung. Surgical audit in search of deathā Surveys the void between each breath.
Steel forged-blade stabs anapest. Spectre eyes blinkā a dark inquest,
Heartbeat stalls mid-pulse, slow Fingers curl, in question-mark pose
Wrist is snapped by the meter it charts Ink streams in currents of severed parts Autopsy results of dire reportā No prognosis, no flesh to extort.
Is the measured line plumb or straight? Metronome tolls at the gate Where no one steps beyond the door, Where shadows linger on the floor?
Count the syllables in dry monotone
Impersonal dissection of skin and bone; Watch the web of grandeur fallā Like dust against an impervious wall.
Behold the spatter of innocent bloodā A pulse flayed open under fluorescent flood, words exhumed, still warm, threadbare, bones picked cleanā no breath, no prayer
The makeup of a critic
Equipped with tools to gauge the sun Under a rib-caged, rhythmic lung. A precise check looking for deathā Examines the emptiness between each breath.
A steel blade pierces a rhythmic pattern. Ghostly eyes blinkāa dark investigation,
The heartbeat pauses mid-beat, slowly Fingers curl, like a question mark
The wrist is broken by the rhythm it tracks Ink flows in streams of broken parts The autopsy results are grimā No diagnosis, no flesh to exploit.
Is the measured line level or straight? A metronome tolls at the entrance Where no one goes beyond the door, Where shadows remain on the floor?
Count the syllables in a dull voice
A detached examination of skin and bone; Watch the intricate design collapseā Like dust against an unyielding wall.
See the splatter of innocent bloodā A pulse exposed under bright light, words dug up, still warm, worn out, bones stripped cleanāno breath, no prayer