crash, breaks, clatter, cracks, shatters.
face first onto the cold white linoleum floor.
red...blood pulsates forth.
its gentle warmth against my cheek.
numbness. tingling.
nothing.
i try to speak.
nothing.
motionless.
the curtains slowly close.
there is no final bow.
2 comments:
What I like most about "Curtain Call" is that abrupt shift in pace, which rings poignantly of truth. What begins with that painful face first quick and powerful impact, then shifts into something painfully slow. The blood is gentle, the numbness and tingling is felt, the space is motionless, the curtains are slow. Good stuff, and I'm glad to be reading your writing again, Tim!
I agree with Edward... the rapid fire of images and pace make this poem have impact. I like the underlining secret going on here too. I feel las if I just got a snap shot of a really intense moment.
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