They raise their pens higher, their eyes glinting.
The instructor carefully explains the procedure.
This could get messy.
I want to scream for I
know this specimin is not yet dead.
But they slice it to bits anyway. Words flow
like blood and stain their once white
gowns. I stare at this pen in my hand. This
pen is restless. He yearns to leave his
mark, to compete with the others trying
to "save" this poor victim.
This pen is a killer.
I drop the pen and watch as
it hits the cold, silent, knowing floor.
I run from the room, unable to look
back at the carnage. I throw open
the door and murmur my appologies to
Frost and Dickinson and Poe.
I am so sorry.
The procedure was a sucess.
These poems were murdered, explication style.