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I leave the traces all over each surface in this winter air, expanded high-ceilinged halls, icy walled, perfectly angled reflection. I sit near (you) and almost choke not because I’m sad or resentful - just tired, and there is a dull sobbing going on somewhere. White hot cut of betrayal -- I could only twist up the soles between the floor and my own malignant head, searing. |
I sat here reading this several times. Betrayal causes a lot of anger and hurt, and its that only thing you focus on for a while. Let me start out by saying I like the tension you created with your word choice and the conciseness of this poem. This is the only part that gave me a bit of pause... "I can only twist up the soles/between the floor" (souls?) I'm not sure this is adding anything the reader can grasp. It's an abrupt change of metaphor in a short write, or maybe its because the imagery from soles to head is too interrupted with line changes. It left me not quite sure... I don't know that I'd change it or what I'd change in that last section maybe taking out "I could only" and start with Twisting. Just a thought. Hope this is not a peek at your diary! | Posted on 2015-03-11 00:00:00 | by jaycee | [ Reply to This ] | |