The surgeon tried his best, but couldn’t save the subject’s life. When
an illness is arcane, medicine is but subterfuge. The progression
of disease was asymptomatic. The vitals showed no anomaly, but
the breathing was erratic, threatening to stop any moment. Experts
attributed this systemic disturbance to a neurological source. Friends
felt the soul had been smothered. Others recommended the intervention
of an exorcist to wipe clean the evil shadow oppressing the very being
of the subject. The possibility of multiple organ failure wasn’t ruled out.
Even the significant other was at the end of what remained of his wit.
Euthanasia was the only alternative.
The editor tried his best, but couldn’t save the poem’s essence. When
prosody is profane, poetry is but chicanery. The progression
of thought was defective. The metaphors showed no lacunae, but
the rhythm was spasmodic, threatening to fall flat any moment. Reviewers
attributed this overall breakdown to a neurological tic. Friends
felt the soul had been subdued. Others recommended the intervention
of a linguist to wipe clean the primeval clichés oppressing the very texture
of the poem. The possibility of multiple phoneme failure wasn’t ruled out.
Even the celebrated poet was at the end of what remained of his grit.
Deletion was the only alternative.
— A Clock in the Far Past (2018)