A poem about foul secrets.
I’ve kept to strict poetic forms for a long time and learned much. I feel like I’ve earned a go-ahead from myself; yes, now I can start experimenting with elements of free form. I’ve gotten to know the box, so lets see what happens when I break out of it.
As for the subject matter: my family is currently trying to sell the house. It’s gotten me thinking about what our rooms communicate to potential buyers about us, the current inhabitants. You’ll be pleased to know I abhor cruelty to animals, which also features here. Thinking about those who commit such acts however was an interesting subject to use in art.
The Property Market
The Birds twitch.
Stolen feathers, bloodied stumps,
Flavours of the season.
Trusted by locals, joker in the pubs,
Turns a key with familiar ease.
The auctioneer leaves the clients to talk,
Inspects the next room, prepares a speech
To fire minds to the use one may find
For a windowless chamber.