the corvid rises from the yellow moon,
wept to a body of death,
dismissal of its heartbeat to the atramental stars
of unbidden dance; I know how this goes,
I’ve been here before,
slipping out of one’s own skin;
it was memoirs hung by wings,
by the man’s madness; dither now
or die in memory. The moon shall forever watch
as reprieved temporarily, the misremembrance
of the egg we asunder, pierced by the vagary
in empty spaces; I was always a worm on those days,
in anamnesis of different personalities,
but likewise, I was not real despite the disguise
my mind has stroked like the pentirsi
of the moon
its violet, sanguinolent images,
abounding delusion; whittling fingers,
and weak chevilles as I held the guitar; fingernails
shaped to each ghost of dream and loathing,
where mind does not recognize itself
where the moon held the noose
over the red amalgam hills to reach
the sea, starving in its clawing embrace
vomiting memories in its wake.
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Written for the dVerse prompt: Write a poem, any form, about the vatic voice. It could be speaking as a God to a poet. It could be a poet receiving a message. It could be a poem of prophesy. It could be about one others regard as mad by their words. It could be you invoking the vatic voice. After you’ve chosen your perspective and completed your poem, say a few words about the process you went through and how it felt.
I was really inspired by The Hall of Mirrors by Kraftwerk for this poem. In my piece, I describe how prophesy is repeated if someone keeps expecting things to never change. If they expect the same result each time, the chances are that nothing will change for them personally. For this specifically, if the image of the narrator remains the same, how can they expect the change they had sought for from the start?