Dust of tears in a park bench ,
in Brussels ...
That sunless day ,
rain wetting the eyes
of dead leaves ...
Absinth of your skin ,
lake of absence ,
lost summer and now,
a year and go ..
long memoride ,
your landscapes
travelling in still life
and love style ,
on a park bench,
in Brussels...
Jesterday voyagers
sitting on the beach
of nights ...
Murmurs touching
the cold abyss of the mirror ,
the ice cream man will no longer pass
in the forbidden foliage...
Letters of water ,waverer form,
engraved in the moody wood
of the old park bench ...
Muppets grave orchestra ,
A year and few waves again,
in Brussels...
-
Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 17th, 2023 02:07
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 12
Offline)
Comments2
Some objects hold in them the memory (just a little ride..) of the secret annals.Dear max' just the time to sit on the old bench and listen to the message.
touching
Real story for many...
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.