“Lucky” number seven. Edit 1

[rowens]

It's hard to feel anything about it, I have to think because the writing is obviously bad.




Once warm books, now frozen pages in the library of Osiris.

I feel nothing while I read your canvas,

No feelings of sorrow, not even pity,

Nor hear deaf whispers of the past ...

You use the dots for a pause, for the sake of rhythm?

That call your blind souls in despair.



I can’t share a tear for you, I didn’t do it for mine

You mean share a tear with other people that aren't there, or share in the expected sadness? Tear is a symbol for sorrow? You didn't do what for your what?


At best I gaze at your fleshy panoramic landscape

Maybe a comma at the end of that line. But maybe not.

Table horizontal marble mountains.

“Perhaps I’m an empty vessel as well” I said.



There isn't much interesting going on. Nothing new. Nothing in what's being said or how it's being said. If you want to know what's better, you have to come up with it yourself. You're the poet.

I'm not drawn into it, it's too rough and lackluster to experience it as anything more than a skeleton frame where a poem could be.



They said she had nothing to offer anymore,

But she gave me the world in silence,

You could start at that point, and try to work through what you need to say and how.