PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Anyone who likes to see their destitution of things done or adone,

Well, here it is, in this weary way of saying things.

In where I myself came shorthanded of my wits was one sickly 

And deranged like day when I fell in love with.

Yes, I say, it is smarter leaving her name unsaid as I'm so afraid of her.

Her promise was she'd kill me dared I speak of her again.

It came to be, as it is, with that kind of poetic sentiment of Moons

And winds and something bla bla in eternal city of Rome.

Faith we call it, it, as it does, cruelly that is and likely also intentionally,

Called me that day to that what I thought was beautiful 

And that what was, as it turned out, the beginning of my very end.

That was when she, in her reddish, airy summerdress,

Walked idly in the crowded restaurant that faithful evening of june.

My whole consciousness conscioused what her appearance,

As a hungry baby, screamed: TROUBLEEEEEEE!

But what can that consciousness really handle to master,

When your body is motored by your gut entirely.

Onward from that night and during months and months,

What I didn't give and what I didn't do for her;

Only to, even in a smallish gesture, get any response of affection,

But pretty disappointingly nothing prevailed.

After long I came to see her, with all my mental strength summoned,

And weakly I said to her -- 'I love you.' And ...

[The monologue was recorded from the dictation of the severed head of

the Chicken-man, before it followed path of rest of the body and exhausted.

Nevertheless, as it spoke, it wasn't aware that it was already dead.]