F. G. Denton

Cold of surgical steel, cold and stiffness of hand, Kocher clamp clicked in rhythm with the coroner’s heart. In anamnesis mortis the story remained, Doctor Jekyll is filing the post-mortem chart. In her life only ars nobilissima est, Formal shape of the sentences holds the reports. In the motionless body just heart in the chest, Souls returning to life with the dead language words. In the mirror she sees not her usual gaze, Not the eyes of a human who guides afterlife, It’s the poet of dread in the clearing haze, This is Hyde with her quill, sharp and deadly as knife. Words are dancing in strings, link together in chain, Follow rules that she sets, fit in multiple shapes. Tears will dry on the page, blood will leave drops of stain, Tiny part of her soul there forever remains. Symbiosis of arts, dualism of the mind, Never mixing together, but always so close, Sharp precision and imagination combined, Poems—cure or poison, depends on the dose.