Before reviewing, know what a "concrete poem" is. CTRL - backs you away from the screen. |
Blade Though I walk through the door of either or no more, no more; I find a new hall of doors through which I go for, and at the end, a window to my life: an onion. Until now one layer at a time, coming off— revealing the odious next layer, finding nothing more than the same, the same, the same. The same I know, the same old layer I beheld before. So I walk towards the new; the unlocked door when through, when through; I see a point on the floor and I discover another blade, another blade; and I smell: an odor until now was hidden by my glum consciousness. But I learn this repulsive new fragrance will bring nothing more than more tears, more tears. More tears pour out, the tears that would not be without, within. Now I hold sharp, the blade I found and I slice, I slice, and see? I can peel the layer again and again I peel it, I peel it off and off more and more come off and then surprise,— beneath the surface, emerges another, other, odious odorous layer. |