That macabre nightmare refuses
to desist, bubbling in my thoughts
like a frightening fountain whose faucet
runs only hot.
Only hot — those visions mock me,
scald my soul until scars fester
and ripple on the surface encircling
what was once me.
Once me — like a pest I’ve gone
too far and while you watched this pot
has boiled. All that remains is the drain,
once me (and you) run only hot.
©2021 | Phillip Knight Scott
Today at dVerse we’re trying oral poetry. I started this poem in my head and tried to make use of repetition and alliteration to make it easier to remember. I made it to the end!
I also used Fandango’s one word challenge: “macabre,” a word I can never pronounce correctly, ironically enough.