He knew something about human nature, all right,
But he wasn't really in touch with the world.
"They can't keep me from running," he said.
The man knew he was next,
For he could hear the slosh of water and the gulping and inhaling.
He beckoned to the man and he comforted him before the plunge.
"It is a vacation from being you," he said.
"For life is motion." Besides they are all dead.
"But sometimes death is a cold silence like the arctic night."
"Not always," said the murderer.
"There is some hullabaloo about it."
He grabbed his scalp and pushed him under.
It was all a breathless monotony, suddenly cut off, never a blunder.
Then there he was, the flower in the cranny.
1 comment:
I love that line from the book - the flower in the cranny. To me - it should read, the flower in the cranium. Of course, this reminds me of geranium. There is this whole other poem errupting here. Do you see this? Maybe we should make hyperlink poetry where we linke poems inspired by certain words or lines to the original text? Nice organization of conversation. I like the whole thing. - elmeer
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