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 ...
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Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Online) - Published: October 1st, 2025 10:33
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
Online)
Comments2
Dark and as a portent of coming death and destruction it has a cold feel that shivers the spine and raises the hair on the back of the neck. Nicely written Lorenz
I am always open to encourage vocations !
A misty, musical confessional poem about pain, transition, and memory. In every image there is a fragile beauty beyond suffering.
Suicide is the most lucid affirmation of the true philosophy !
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