Italics are not bold
They are not striking.
They are the unsung heroes of writing
The ones we never see coming.
An Elephant stands alone in the field
His weary eyes telling a story in italics.
As peaceful as a cow
And no more dangerous.
The quiet nature after the Must
The quietness of the crowd behind me
Send waves of hollowness
Through my crowded mind.
I stand backed by thousands in the field
My eyes telling a story in the futility
Of the white man's dominion in the East.
The elephant breathes in italics
And I can see the delicate lines
Of it's wrinkly skin.
The crowd stands together in the field.
Their chants tell a story in bold.
Louder and louder they grow
"Faces all happy;
Excited over this bit of fun"
From a poor elephants end.
I hold my arm straight
My finger on the trigger.
The only thing keeping me moving
Are the loud jeers from the town.
I put on my mask and finish the elephants story
In a devilish roar of glee.
The elephant trembles
The careful lines I saw before are filled with distress.
He does not fall
So I pour shot after shot
Into the Elephant's soul.
Finally the elephant meets his end.
He falls to the ground
All alone
Picked apart bone by bone.
Not in italics
Not even in bold.
YOU ARE READING
Italics
PoetryThis is a poem I wrote for my World Lit class. The assignment was the write a found poem based on the story "Shooting an Elephant" by George Orwell. A found poem is when you only use words used by the original author(which I followed loosely lol). "...
