Ghosts (revision 3)

[billy]

hi violet,

what we encourage is to post it over the original in the 1st post as edit 1, edit 2 etc, that way we can see the changes made

Dark settles on the walls, the street lamp blinks some
light, then dies, then blinks again. A moth- stuck inside
the room- pares its wings on the glass, falls to the
windowsill, then does it again. My eyelids do the same.
I think you can restructure "does it again" into something more beautiful

I remember his mouth; how the ghosts under
his tongue slid through the cracks of his teeth,
found mine, stayed there. And the birds at the
backs of our eyes drank too much to leave.
this is your best stanza

He told me there's a life of everything, somewhere
else; one that isn't made of feathers or concrete.
I'd be the flayed moth that made it through the glass,
He, the sun, and my guts would be warmed under him.

I don't get the "life of everything" line. Call me daft.
I dunno if you've noticed, but moths turn to dust even when hit with moisture. I'd know, because I've accidentally eaten one.

"Does it again" ... like the narrators eyelids. And most definitely wouldn't call you daft, M'Lady. Moths can survive in the rain- albeit with less fuzz - but I have to ask, how did you manage to eat one? (my cousin accidentally chewed a fly when it landed on her bubblegum).

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hi violet, i see you left feedback elsewhere :J:
i'm presuming from the moth that it didn't last (in the poem) and like the moth's wings became frayed and worn. i think it's a strong original poem about promises and the frailty of them. i did read your ideas but think i saw something else/more. the poem overall has a dark feel to it, even deathly.
thanks for the read.

Dark settles on the walls, the street lamp blinks some
light, then dies, then blinks again. A moth- stuck inside i like the image the enjambment leads to in the next line.
the room- pares its wings on the glass, falls to the for me the enjambment could be better worked on this line. a suggestion would be to move something up, or move something down.
windowsill, then does it again. My eyelids do the same.

I remember his mouth; how the ghosts under is [I remember his mouth;] needed? we know for the rest of the words it's his mouth.
his tongue slid through the cracks of his teeth, would over work better than through?
found mine, stayed there. And the birds at the
backs of our eyes drank too much to leave. some good images in your metaphor.

He told me there's a life of everything, somewhere
else; one that isn't made of feathers or concrete.
I'd be the flayed moth that made it through the glass,
He, the sun, and my guts would be warmed under him.

Ahh, Billy. Thank you for your words and I'm really liking the sound of trimming the mouth away. It sounds like... less of a mouthful (no pun intended). Didn't think of 'over'..
Great food for thought!
When I post an edit, can I post it here underneath the original?

Thank you again for the review. As always, it is appreciated.

V