Poem

MirrorsWhen you ’re dead insideYou almost need to see the blood flowTo know it isn't so.When your skin can't breathe,Encased in this thin carapace,There ’s an urge to pierceThe merely conceptual shellWith this non abstract knife orA broken shard of glass or,If that ’s too extreme,A direct pointed question,A query that echoes aroundA fun house Hall of MirrorsWhere it ’s just me and me and me In every twist I turn until,Like a word said over and over,(banana banana banana …)It loses all meaning,Reflections become being,Existence a warped horror-showOf comforting episodic sound,(break the glass, the glass, the glass)The drip drip drip of blood against the ground.5/17/20

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - May 16, 2020 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs