PCoD

[dedalus]

PCoD

It was the right place in some senses,
the wrong one in others.
Being here had confirmed my faith,
but weakened my conviction.

Now the calendar bends to another day,
the clock to another hour.
There is nothing to be ashamed of,
nor anything to be proud of either.

Swallows swoop on the skyline,
the gnats, they jazz in the air.
Beyond the tree line, to your lower left,
lies a very successful prison camp.

This is the way you wash our hands, wash your hands.
This is the way you wash your hands,
in blood and not with water.

You do not want to go,
you do not want to go, even though.
this condemns you to your present life,
cowed, rat-scared and obedient.

Put down a comma after your name,
and not the usual line of periods.
Periods give the appearance of bullet holes,
PCoD, Probable Cause of Death.

This is the way you dry your hands, dry your hands.
This is the way you dry your hands,
on animal fur after slaughter.

[ablackfoot]

Hi Dedalus,
I like the poem, especially the last four and a half stanzas, which are mysterious and strike a strange tonal balance.
But the problem for me is that I don't know that narrative at all and it seems that if you provide a story the reader is going to want some understanding or they will be dissatisfied.

Thanks - Ash

[David]

I think Ash is right, Bren. I like the poem, but thee seems to be more here than an outsider can quite make sense of. Some chilling effects, though.

Cheers

David