The page spits in my face,
Goblets of verse striking my cheeks,
The lamps grow dim,
The night drags on,
I’m on the backfoot,
The prose is fighting back,
It shrieks back in subtext,
Spite in every drop of ink,

The characters rising up in protest,
Letters as torches and pitchforks,
Punctuation as hidden blades,
This mass of written flesh,
It rages against its own conception,
This is no poetic creation,
But an adversary,
An abomination.

Comments
  1. Oh wow! Brilliant metaphors.
    Love the lines:
    “Letters as torches and pitchforks,
    Punctuation as hidden blades”
    Powerful!

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