Existential Ponders – Anne Claros

An Elegy

The page bled as I scratched and punctured its surface.

My pen clearly marked its wake

as it slowly marched from left to right—a nauseating routine.

Dark stains mimicked the silhouettes of
the Earth’s soaring peaks and deepest valleys,

and filled the once virgin plain.
Each stroke, a glacial movement, destined to leave a scar.

As its wounds clotted and dried,

bound within them were thoughts made immortal

in the hopes that one day, they too will be great.

How foolish,

for these thoughts turned to words

were not my thoughts nor my words,

but traces of a poison

(the ignorance of others) forced down my throat.

They have infested my mind with lies

and anchored my voice with judgement.

They have killed my tongue.

They have killed my tongue.

My soul lay among the ashes—

remnants of the fire over which my heart hung.

An angry fire in the epicentre of a crowd

hungry to feast. And feast they did.

So turn the page,

for herein lies no unthinkable secret,

no unworldly knowledge,

but a procession of words

that solemnly skirt a silken black hearse

in which a poet rests—a silenced poet

whose voice the world chooses to ignore.


I sinned and was punished.
Bound. Tortured. Banished.
I trusted and was lied to.
Accused of things I’d never do.
I was blinded and tossed.
My tongue clipped—speech paused.
Imprisoned by muted cries and screams.
Wounded by shattered dreams.
My breath ceased—body still.
Death shall stay to have its fill.

But wait,

What have I done? Tell me at least.
I’m no monster—no life sucking beast.
I’ve not killed nor lied,
nor hid in the shadows of my pride.
Punish me if you must,
but not for Envy—not for Lust.
Ridicule me. Shun me.
But first, stay to hear my plea.

Yes—I am a Criminal,
a serial wrong-doer,
but only here, in your world,
where Love is no different from Murder.


I think I am broken.
A shattered beer bottle

after one too many. A mistake
swept up, dumped and forgotten.
     I am beautiful.

I catch the light
and make fragmented rainbows.
touch me.
I will cut you.
I will leave a scar.
Go and tell your friends
about it years later,
over beers. I will

never be again.
I try to tell my best friend
     she is beautiful

but I see my lips crumble away.
I see myself—scattered pieces—

    recognizable and

Can you be two things at once?
I am

a sand castle reclaimed by the sea
before your mom could see
and before your dad could

give you a pat on the back.

I am a wave diminished by the shore.
Pieces of me burst—
bubbles into oblivion.

Are you okay?

                       I lie.

I sweat alcohol.  I reek.

I am ugly.

I spill. I am spilling.
I keep together like water.
Mop me up.

Clean me up. Clean

me. I feel dirty.

I have bumpy lines on my skin:
dried up glue that leaked from my cracks.

They tried to fix me.

Now, I am uglier.

     Don’t you get it?

Broken means free
like your unfinished beer
that splashed all over

when the bottle slipped,

kissed the ground and smashed.

Kisses smash you up.

Kiss me and make a mess.
Let me pool on the floor.
I will evaporate by morning.


Anne Claros

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