I take up my pen
to tell you about
my inner words .
But its only
a fragile bird feather
tossed about by the winds
in a trouble state of mind
without reason and direction ...
This old refrain,singing
a love story ,
no longer having children...
Three tired chords on a guitar
drawning in an inspired wave
in the sea of melancholy ...
My pen has nothing more to say .
She is object of may .
The poet died in the beginning
of the harvest season ,
leaving behind ,poor testament ,
a few sonnets mummified in time ...
My widow will give birth
to a mischievous black moon ...
Would that be the end of the comedy ?
Or will only these illusory curves
remain in the wizzard's book ?
My seasonal feelings
addressed to dead lives ,
before falling asleep ,
somewhere on the winter road.
In memory ...
-
Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 8th, 2025 12:58
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: Ellen Marsell
Offline)
Comments3
A deeply melancholic piece, in tune with the mood of autumn.
Melancholic inspired watercolors in the windland...
A good write with more symbols than a drum set. Nicely written.
A drum set ? I love the umpapa image !
Yea symbols and cymbals you know.
There’s a dreamlike quality here that pulls the reader into its quiet sadness. “my pen is only a fragile bird feather tossed about by the winds” compares writing to a powerless feather, symbolizing vulnerability and lack of control. Interesting metahor. “my pen has nothing more to say” the pen is given human qualities of speaking or falling silent. Love the use of personification. Nicely written.
Inspiration is no longer mastery (But is it really ?) It becomes drift, uncertain breath and prey to inner winds .
The art of writing is an instrument of revelation and admission of fragility .
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