SouleXtinction Posted:

Poems are such an archaic form of expression. Log in to see images!

My entire life is a performance.

A tale of woe in three acts.

Act 1: Expectation

Act 2: Disappointment

Act 3: Erasure

The second intermission is done.

Now all that is left… is all that is left…

That in and of itself is poetic enough. Afterall, life is simply a cycle – From birth to the inevitable death we all experience, both in the grander scale and every single day. Death is a part of us as much as it is anything else, and our poetry reflects this fascination with the black, the unknown, the eternal entrapment of suffering.

I pontificated on the subject for quite some time today, and found myself writing during my lunch break at The Oppression (what I oh-so-lovingly refer to my “school” as. as if they could truly teach anything of consequence.) That said, I wish to share my latest creation with those of you so included beyond the blackened veil.

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There Is No Title For This Poem.

I see, before me, a lid. Red plastic. Primary colours. Signifying, signaling, spiraling. Red means go.

Green means stop.

Stop.

Against the flurry of septic waste.

Against the masters of disease.

Plastic slicing bone and flesh, three-ninety-nine please, your receipt is in the bag.

Some money, some change, exchanged, brief glances of hands and contact, pale skin

sweat

tears running down

Black trails ensue.

How much did your soul cost?

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I, of course, take all criticism seriously. Unless you have no idea what you are talking about, in which case you will be promptly ignored. Also, to address this before it becomes an issue, all poetry I post here is copyright myself (Correnth), and is not to be posted elsewhere without express written permission of the author. I know, I know – it is a shame I have to resort to such things, but there have been issues with people attempting to steal my works and pbum them off as their own. A shame the world we live in, is it not?