The Melancholy of Final Pages
The aim is still the same,
reflect what it means to be human.
A tale, of ghosts past and present.
The voice was unmistakable,
this calculated rudeness feeding the cooked flesh,
a vehicle for rage irredeemably cursed.
Hatred does not always need excision,
enchanted with metaphor,
he cannot resist lurid detail.
The randomness of landscape
set in the present, infused
with archaic memories of a primitive age.
No-one is safe
in the shadow of the zone
of the Dead City.
My chest is sprung open
with arresting clarity
in the experiment.
Lisa Oliver is a writer and tutor based in Cheshire. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Keele University where she specialised in prose fiction. Lisa graduated with a new-found love and respect for poetry and is addicted to finding poetry in the everyday, the weird and the wonderful. lisajoliver.wordpress.com
Note: Sentences and phrases found from The Guardian Review, 1 March 2014