suicide gate

Poem woven from mists 

as a confession in drizzle season.

Funeral softness that dissolves forms,

gently closing the eyes of flames .

Fugue played on autumnal arpsichord,

touched by the feverish  fingers 

of a composer lost in imperfect harmony...

Timid poem that goes to the burial 

of dead lips ...

  Hurried passerby ,

look at me ! 

  Entrust me with your desires !

Don't you recognize me ?

 I am the crack in your miror.

 The voiceless echo of your lamento .

Your opera on the torn stave of a drama...

On the tearful pavement 

I caught a loving glance thrown there...

Half -eaten summer fruit 

like a  mature child, friend of Saturn ...

The thorns of the dead rose 

no longer cause pain,

  wilting on the carnal marble...

 Then ,stripped of its cadaveric alchemy 

the city will become a  kingdom 

of acrobats walking on the clouds ,

   suspended in acid droplets ...

 Passion  sinking with me in an intimate beyond...

 I won't forget this date with lady oblivion

along the bridge at the call of perdition,

greeting the shadows of the past ,

in front of the suicide gate ,

 waiting for me ,once again ,

  you will hold the urn of my memory 

 in your arms ...