A little ,a lot .
Maybe never .
The next moment until the end.
Is it still possible to escape ?
Poetry is just a passing inn
where we write on a stain tableclothe
what we were unable to say to lost souls...
Words ,now only have the taste
of a cooled tenderness .
Meat that return to ashes...
Life remains suspended on a twilight
of remorses where hours converse
with boredom .
Savoring the poisoned instant
of an amnesic absinthe ...
At departure as at arrival,
we are always to late ,
forgetting the lethal lyric ...
So cold is the memory of reverie.
Tonight I will stop at the inn
in the middle of nowhere .
Terror terminus .
By the flickering light of my subconscious
I would draw up the lines
of a will for nothingness.
and tonight falling asleep
in the arms of a child's death .
The appetizers of a well -educated folly
leave regrets on the shredded body
of a double bass that I will no longer enjoy...
Up there,I will finish this concerto
for purple dahlias ,
in tribute to the vestal virgins ...
A red beverage to the feeling of metal
draw a ruby necklace ,that is dying
in the delta ...
A little,a lot .
Maybe never .
The next moment until the end .
Escaping is no longer possible
under the black sun of melancholy...
-
Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Online) - Published: November 10th, 2025 11:36
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 6
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Online)
Comments3
A haunting and lyrical poem. Loved it
So many cursed spirits haunt me !
👏🏻 love it!
Thank you for your lunar appreciation !
It is amazing how this poem begins with a sense of metaphorical reality that dissolves into the mists of surreal and cryptic images barely intelligible. There is a stream of logic to the illogical a drift from reality (whatever that may be) to free floating associations with no key, locked in the mind of the creator. It is very nicely crafted. A fave
I am fortunate to have a very locked mind !
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