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 death— Surveys the void between each breath.
Steel forged-blade stabs anapest. Spectre eyes blink– 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 report— 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 fall— Like dust against an impervious wall.
Behold the spatter of innocent blood— A pulse flayed open under fluorescent flood, words exhumed, still warm, threadbare, bones picked clean– 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 death— Examines the emptiness between each breath.
A steel blade pierces a rhythmic pattern. Ghostly eyes blink—a 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 grim— 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 collapse— Like dust against an unyielding wall.
See the splatter of innocent blood— A pulse exposed under bright light, words dug up, still warm, worn out, bones stripped clean—no breath, no prayer