Anatomy Of Brokenness Poem by Erwin Maramat

You held a scalpel into the light

and ascertained that the edges were blunt

because you are about to perform an incision,

slowly you cut and empty out the body of

its soul.

The world has ever since become a catalog of gray things, it spells a certain kind of doom,

as I tinker with aimless possibilities,

I am cast in a windowless room.

My fingers no longer obey the voice in my head,

no longer do they run in the fields of words

that were sown on pages of authors who obscure what to begin with is already absurd.

My sight detest beauty, for in truth they are illusions painted to make us believe that semantics arise from their existence;

in time, it will outlive its purpose; therefore, contingent.

Though music barges in to bring sugar in a bowl, to the tongue it is but bitter,

to a murder of crow detestable twitter.

The sun sings no summer;

the moon covets no lovers

beneath and in the lake,

the stars no sparks do they shower

peaks or towers

they not venerate.

The morning devoid of promises;

the night unadorned with rest,

for it offers neither to the weary

nor to the breathing, but dead.

The clock disenchanted with time

a stream that crosses infinity bequeath no crown sublime,

for time hold no sway

mortals as I find it unkind.

Anatomy of brokenness defined.

—Erwin D Maramat/Erwinism