"preperations" poems
The *** with match, lit the fire
scolding kettle with burnt goaless ambition.
claiming snobbish golden prowess
paid in wanton , savage, screaming tuition.
"It is I" said ***
"Who has sent aromas of worlds
preperations in lifes gluttonous lust
smiling rewards genorously hailed
with slothed culanary trust..."
"tis true" whispered kettle
"It is I, the ***
forged in iron clad
who in laborious toil
so generously cast my sweet savory scraps
amongst your soot and soil..."
"tis true" hissed kettle,
"For I, the ***
adapt in multiple arrangement
of compliment and comfort where you lack
with singular solitary function
wailing, seared and scarred in black..."
"Tis true" whistled kettle
"I, the ***
filled in glorious substance and magnificant sustenance
praised in lifes delicate, vital, victuals and viands
in with which I do enhance..."
"Tis true" howled kettle
"Yet it is I, Kettle,
in further fashion of design
than copious function in fare
do not heed your song and dance..."
"Blah" clammered ***
"For it is I, the lowly kettle,
sing to each melodious morning
to begin the days
unknown magical soaring..."
"Pishaw" growled ***
"It is I, kettle,
bestowed in somber, modest truth of fact
nakedly express that
you too, my dear ***
are simply black..."
"humbug" steamed ***
*** humbled... kettle mumbled...
"It is in each honorable day
we serve our distinguishable stay
in detectable unadorned identicle way.
"Tis true" said ***
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 3:27 AM UTC
Since I already knew
I'd die of a broken heart
I made preperations
treating my death like art
Stop worrying
I took care of everything
the guests and the burying
even ordered flowers in early spring
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 4:47 AM UTC
Every so often they would come in
Turn the lights on and ask me questions
Then record my responses
Never showing emotion
They only asked and observed
Perhaps seaching for certain responses
The room had no windows
I could not truely tell
If it was day or night
My memories were blurred
And with each passing test
They only grew more clouded
The observers returned again
This time not asking
But telling
They told me things
Both mundane and strange
Supposed events and occurrences
Whether they were in the future
Or the distant past
I did not know
I listened to and answered
The faceless observers
For what seemed like days
The time came
When they seemed satisfied
With the knowledge I had gained
And they endeavoured
To show me one final thing
By wheeling out a simple mirror
They faced it towards me
And what I saw looking back
Shocked me to my core
In the dim relection
I saw a strange machine
With churning part and glowing orbs
This machine was me
Though I knew not how
For it was not a form I recalled
One of the larger observers explained
I was the last intelligence
Of a long extinct race
In fact they told me
I was the last individual intelligence
In the universe
For they were all part
Of a greater hive mind
That had absorbed all creation
They planned to bring me
Before that grand being itself
Once preperations were made
Silently and without emotion
They left the room
And turned the lights off again
I was alone again
I, the sole survivor
Brought back from the oblivion
Of an antiquated age
To face the god of this one
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 1:24 PM UTC