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Critical Analysis #2

Quotidian

Treagal
Junior Member

since 2008-01-08

Posts 38

0 posted 2008-03-20 11:14 PM

-Quotidian-

It's hard to fathom a soak'ed face,
brightened by a street light's trace.
Avoiding the alley, tight and dark;
where some, tinned like sardines, stood.
Your pale complexion paled;
to my flour-handed span.

Breaking and re-kneading you again,
the elasticity never the same between us.

And it's hard to fathom a spool of lace,
adorned beside a Hordocks place.
Florid in the woods that show no feet,
the beauty oozing obsolete;
and dressed in ornate pots on desks.
A trophy wife, of unmarried best.

Wither and die, the pot remains the same;
with circular halo still grasped in ones hand.

And it's strange,
the talk of the raven holds no meaning;
even as the last caw recedes,
and the Death Angel trumpets through.
To you, darkness on bough, your voice screaming;
with wild-sorrow, voiced what
my light-less eyes could not.

In the mirror pools of life,
reflections cast a dark wing'ed beast;
the herald of death, pecking dark fruit.

I would like some critique on this. the title is up in the air right now. I would highly appreciate any feedback you can give thanks

Treagal
Junior Member

since 2008-01-08

Posts 38

1 posted 2008-03-23 02:05 AM

An updated version for any body who cares.

Quotidian

It's hard to fathom a soak'ed face,
brightened by a street light's trace
avoiding the alley, tight and dark;
where some, tinned like sardines stood.
Your pale complexion paled;
to my flour-handed span.

Breaking and re-kneading you again
the elasticity never the same.

And it's hard to fathom a spool of lace
[adorned] beside a Hordock's place,
florid in the woods that show no feet
the beautiful bleeding into obsolete;
and dressed in ornate pots on desks.
A trophy wife: unmarred at best.

Wither and die, yet the pot is the same
with brass halo still grasped in ones hand.

And so strange
the talk of the raven holds no meaning.
Even as the last caw recedes
and the Shinigami trumpets through
to you darkness on bough and wind, screaming
with wild-sorrow, voiced
what light-less eyes could not.

Those mirror-pools of life,
reflecting a black wing'ed beast[em-dash h]
the herald of death pecks dark fruit.
Thanks again to anyone who can give me some critical attention to this. I would highly appreciate it!!

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