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Do I have regrets? Well, not yet...
by Laura DoomNow death decides to write itself
into my screenplay; the usual constraints
of style and structure are sacrificed
to the godess of heathens: Caprice lifts
her dress, puckers her lips and delivers
a stream of child-like excuses
to justify her trite and trustless
survival by decadence; the world
is her obstacle, her nacreous preserve
spreading sweetness in lies over the sea
bed; nothing sticks to her sheets, or soils
the borderline certainty that seals her faults
from scrutiny. She celebrates the mundane
as life, much like this poem, is overwritten. 03/23/2013 Posted on 03/23/2013
Copyright © 2024 Laura Doom
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 03/24/13 at 07:01 AM Interesting concept...overwritten. Makes me want to know what the redacted lines were/are. With or without them, excellent close off in that last line. |
| Posted by Mo Couts on 05/23/13 at 07:05 PM The overwriting definitely sent my mind reeling to all the things it could have been and all the words it might be...maybe you'll eventually enlighten us. |
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