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Picture perfect addiction carefully placed on a canvas of self distruction
Pour my heart into paper clouds, slouched inside an hourglass
Suspended in an uncomfortable limbo.
A puppet, someone plays fast and loose with my strings.
Inflamitory words absorb into spongy asphalt and I reach my limit for poison.
My heart is already sore from the bites. Stinging. Burning.
Branded like cattle with embered slurs.
Caught in an undertow
The great French poet and
The great French poet and diplomat, Paul Claudel, once stated that a poem can be carried by its metaphors alone, without need of any further embellishment such as rhyme or metrical consistency. Most of his poems followed that pattern of construction. Yours does too. This poem brilliantly and effectively demonstrates the obvious truth of Claudel's belief in the power of metaphor. I applaud this poem. It is mighty fine.
Starward