Nov18

Margaret Atwood
Gorgon awoke again to another
Day of mirrorless solitude.
A day of arranging dead flowers by touch,
Drinking sour milk,
And slicing mouldy bread.

Each hour of each same day
Following the same loop
Around her bland cave,
Avoiding the cluttering statues
Of memories enshrined into stone.

But, what fresh days! When the wind
Actual moved through her locky pit
Of fiendish friends, heckling one another,
In chain reactions of hysteria,
Until a visit from pathetic adventurers.

Of course, it would mean more chess,
More moving the pieces around the board,
More manipulation of those poor fools
Into positions that could actually amuse her
Once they became rigid additions to her home.

But, that well dried up,
Just like the venom in the fangs
Of her hirsute asps,
Writhing to the beat of
Mute orchestras.

So, she wandered her reach
To reach the extent of her wondering.
In loneliness it is impossible to find
One's true self. The clamour of silence
Blocks out the true melody of soul.

The only person who might listen is deaf
And the only person who might speak is dumb.
So, just as you find someone one can really talk to...
You petrify them with one hard stare.
And that's the killing joke!

Margaret Atwood, Canadian poet, novelist, critic and environmental activist, was born today in 1939.

Alan Moore, English comic book writer, was born today in 1953.

Infosec guy by day, Poet by night!

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