It looks like,
Blood is warming just minds,
And thought is bruising The Soul.
Nails are clenching us,
And air scratches the lungs.
It looks like,
We've gotten on misleading.
Our way of flying,
Is leading to a fallen star.
The Virgo is violently stretched.
It looks like,
Burns spread to organs,
Breath smells of brimstone.
A cold light shines through the eyes
And colors get nuances of gray.
-
Author:
Florin Dragoș Minculescu (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: February 8th, 2022 04:22
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 13
- User favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek.
Offline)
Comments1
what a profound write, dear Poet
and I humbly thank you
for inspiring these words as reply, below:
(rear-view mirror, warped imagery
regret, greying out
our mementos of life's, once cherished moments;
instead, we seek shelter
in the shadows of our muddy thought's
all-grim, as our appeal
for without hope, we stay immune
to disappointment
and Time's, thieving plague
so labouring, to keep its all decayed and grey
in our past
we wage a path forward, one
shaky step
at a time
allowing no merit to Spring's horizons, of life
we tape our visions, so only Autumn and Winter
appear as tangible, future's..
then we lament, this nihilistic surrender
of placebo: living!)
Hi! Thank you! 🙂
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