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This Poem Is Postmodern

This Poem Is Postmodern

At the top of an outdoor staircase was a carriage
Antique, with the dark undertone of iron

At the bottom of the carriage was a wheel
That creaked at only the least opportune opportunities

To remind everyone that they depended on it
A leader somewhere screeched that it must be moved.

Moved it would be, by a hand with overgrown nails
Attached to a face of constructed blankness.

It was a strange moment for the world to be hushed over
On account of the fact that no one had ever looked inside the carriage

As it turns out, it is hard to push an antique carriage down a set of unengaging stairs
In the silence was the noise of the

creak
creak
creak
smash

wheel
as it bounded

down down
towards

flash flash
pounce

overgrown
crowd

underneath
blank eyes

whack crack
crumble
crumple
spill
shush
Screech

Silence.

Suddenly
a voice boomed “You can’t even come close to extracting meaning from that kind of run”

A set of words sat at the bottom of the staircase, at the feet of the world, and they read:

This Poem Is Postmodern

Because it is vaporous, thin whispering. Its words are moving too fast for its message. These ones aren’t.
You can’t grasp it, hold it, roll it around in the same way that you are grasping these words here.
Right now.

But if you label something as postmodern, does it still count?
And am I even a poem anymore?

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A poem which was dizzying to write.

A 20 year old student paving her way through life with words.

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