I'ts a cold mourningshift around
the central station afterlife .
In this spirit of evil burned by insomnia
all that remains in dead leaves
between vomit and disgust for love .
As well a red puddle as ultimate excretion...
Drunks and killers are crescent moon friars.
At flickering hours pass by the black poet
who purify the soul of the trash cans .
Central station ,tourists embarking to nowhere,
purchasing a one -way regret
and go sip a coffin at the local starback ...
Today is epidemic morning .
It is mandatory to advance secretly masked .
Miss Death will be delayed due to the strike.
A queen of spades lingers on a wet embrace...
Poor Jack of hearts out of play !
It's the hour when rats roll the flea shroud ,
discovering that dreams always lead
to the hall of infamy ...
At the departure gate ,a nutecase
wrote '' I love you ! ''
correspondance interrupted
by a police raid .
Often people become cops
because they failed their hooligan exam...
But that'a another story .
A bullshit that we don't tell each other
in a busy station hell ...
'' Hey bloke Can you spare a few coke ? ''
In the weariness of our steps,
perhaps we will rediscover
the meaning of the journey ...
On halloween masquerade
the drowned children will return .
Local starback eternity .
Central station terminal island ...
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Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 23rd, 2025 10:49
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 10
- Users favorite of this poem: Ellen Marsell
Offline)
Comments4
This poem feels like a ghost train that doesn’t follow a schedule, but moves along the tracks of hopelessness.
It smells of wet asphalt, night coffee, cheap rum, and that special kind of sadness that lives somewhere between cynicism and compassion.
Once again, you write like a noir director and an underground philosopher, dear Lorenz.
I feel flattered ,I humble champion of the urban underground !
thoroughly enjoyed this, bravo
Lets celebrate the start of Scorpio season with a touch of humor !
very much so
Have you ever mixed up two jigsaw puzzles then taken out half the pieces. A game of eight ball without the eight ball or pool and a billiards table. A wild read.
It could be a deck of cards with missing characters ...
Blanks perfect
At some point, they all passed through the station of despair.
Some may have asked, where does the death go, and the conductor laughed, even I don't know.
This place is the astral terminal where souls gather before crossing the threshold of existence.It's not a place of transit between cities but between worlds .
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