A weird poem about the parting of a man who found life just a bit too much to stand. |
-Irregular The Shape- by Keaton Foster Irregular the shape Six by eight Twenty four nails Hammered true Crafted by one man Filled with another Death has come to roost A soul has escaped The body has begun to rot The stench is contained Unaware are the patrons Those who have come Paying their respects Quite mundane In life they didn’t care But in death somehow They found a way to care Just enough to show up Etiquette, what a bitch And the living Those that are to remain Know it all too well The deadest of man Would feel sorry for them If he had ever been capable Of such a hypocrital concept He was incapable most of all There is a man in black Stained white He is speaking the word of God Some sort of a parting passage Filled with nonsensical madness Meant to frighten those alive And condemned those dead There is and has never been An in between It has always been Either caution or extreme To live is of course to die Maybe that is profound Then again, maybe mundane No matter, the result is the same On the edge the man in the box Often found himself standing The softest of touch No doubt would have been All that would be required A bullet to the brain A rope around the neck A deep sliced to the vein The excessive means of an end Insignificant to those present In sadness they lament The man in the box The rotting corpse Is incapable of any more feelings Little has changed between His life and the grave What a terrible shame Irregular the shape Six by eight Twenty four nails Hammered true Crafted by one man Filled with another… Irregular The Shape Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2013 |