Windows

Windows

Fire a bullet through a window
and in a split second,
it will shatter in a blind storm of glass.
The decision is irrevocable,
edit: like atrophy that licks painted faces.

An envelope clunks in the mailbox.
Tearing it apart,
the technicolour splinter inside
morphs into a vista of sandy yellow
battling the red rage of the sun.

Emerald green masks
the black hum of helicopters,
their wings looming over the man
whose Dorian face strikes
a picture of innocence into mine.

edit: Now the guns have shattered his eyes
into motionless fragments,
and now the picture of his former self guards
the wall with oiled perfection:
a windowless hymn to his nascent soul.

Gahks wrote:Fire a bullet through a window
and in a split second,
it will shatter in a blind storm of glass.
The decision is irrevocable,
the moment lost to eternity.

The last two lines seem to off-set the fluidity and tone set by the first ones. I was assuming that you would send us an image at least somewhat linked to that of shattering glass, but instead you used the term "lost to eternity", which is nowhere nearly as dramatic as the opening. You've inadvertently created an energy cliff here where the energy simply falls off after the first half of the stanza. Keep the moment going as long as possible and use some more charged language instead of the usual vague fare like the delightfully ambivalent "irrevocable decision" (no imagery here) and losing something to the faceless automaton of eternity.

An envelope clunks in the mailbox.
Tearing it apart,
the technicolour splinter inside
morphs into a vista of sandy yellow
battling the red rage of the sun.

Do envelopes clunk? I'm not sure; it sounds like a word one might use to describe the sound of metal on wood or something to that extent. Last lines were powerful, don't change them for anything.

Emerald green masks
the black hum of helicopters,
their wings looming over the man
whose Dorian face strikes
a picture of innocence into mine.

Am I correct in inferring that the masks are in fact death masks? I see an undertone of death or at least decay running through the piece.

Hats off to your use of the work of the great Oscar Wilde, it adds erudite flair to the poem (it isn't necessary, but I see it as an added touch and not part of the poem's jugular).

But now the guns have shattered his eyes
into motionless fragments,
and now the picture of his former self guards
the wall with oiled perfection:
a windowless hymn to his nascent soul.

Ah, like I guessed, this is about deterioration of the soul. The ending would be good but for the abruptness of the beginning of the last stanza. "But now" implies a sudden shift towards some ideal and I would prefer it if the poem slid into this stanza rather than clutching onto it.

Other than the editing I suggested, nice work.