This Poem was Submitted By: Darlene A Moore On Date: 2002-05-08 16:59:48 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Dissection

I apply my scapel, my favorite letter-opener to the pile of letters littering the floor, filed under the brass-plated mail slot of our front door. I hold up to the light a poem rejected in its third round. Time to take it in for an examination Have the patient disrobe, for a thorough investigation. The first clues---the rejection slips: any editorial comments enclosed. NO. Further analysis needed. Is it a common ailment: one shared too frequently of late. Is the subject matter trite, overdone? Perhaps it is in the skeletal system. The framework of lines, meter, phrases, rhyme schemes. Or is it the metaphor---the symptoms do not match. Perhaps it is the color. The skin pale and wan. No robust sense of emotion, no depth, no insights. Cold an clammy to the touch. Perhaps this physician can prescribe a cure. Perhaps it is time to call the mortician, order a casket, write a post mortem. The breath of life, it is too late to hope? Or can the patient be resuscitated with an infusion of new verbiage, sent out to live again?

Copyright © May 2002 Darlene A Moore

Additional Notes:
This poem was published a few years ago in the Fauquier Poetry Journal.


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