Doom Portrait
Vitriolic visions sunder the prairie state.
Laceration harvest, the streets are stained
with southern fruit,
peach encasing glucose venom, fur coated.
Suits slip'n'slide to offices, I tinker with their
well being, toy sized
from my tower. I remain a reminder
of the hellmouth, imploring the spectral
emperor 'round yonder
corner. Peepers blaze a cathedral flame,
sweet teeth golden, grand finale rain
clouds the back gullet.
Let the legend read I died a trumpet.
The creative and unique use of words makes this poem extremely captivating. As I read this, I visualize many things - disrupted peace, a bloody murder scene, poisoned fruit, daily mundane routines, delusions of grandeur, and hellfire. If this is close to what you intended, it’s a pretty epic combination of thoughts! I really like the last line. Trumpets are loud, powerful brass instruments that are pretty difficult to play (I’ve unsuccessfully tried it before). To say, “I died a trumpet,” makes me think of dying with a “loud noise” - meaning to put up an intense fight before accepting death. It also makes me think of resistance, because I’m getting some pretty strong “do not go gently into that good night” vibes from that line. As usual, your writing is beautifully put together and very thought provoking. This poem was worth the wait!
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