I gambled away my life ,
disguised as a street poet.
Knocking on every door of fantasy,
wireless thightrope walker ,
trying to escape a webless spider ...
Your door didn't have a key .
I entered like a welcome robber ,
stealing the tenderness of your mooring...
Losing myself in the mystery of your hills
which called only for fountains of milk...
I only desired virgins that Leonardo
had not frozen in Renaissance landscapes...
I wrote crazy hours for a mermaid
offered at the damp dawn ...
When noon struck, summer already
left a a farewell message ...
And the childless troubadour,became
a vagabond with a leash around his neck...
Pretty Beatrice,Dante worshipped you,
all I did was caress you ...
What's the point of having regrets ,
we who are shipwrecked on this island
where only pleasure mattered ?
Happiness could wait for the next birth
brought by tide ...
Beatrice,we will look at each other
like two old apples after the storm .
In the morning drinking a cup of regrets
and sharing remorses with the sullen fish
and silent canary ...
Do you remember,my dear, that little bar
via Brera ?
When Milan awoke ,happy to be meeting spring ?
One day,Harlequin fled ,shattering
the mirror of illusions at the sight
of the first fallen leaf ...
A supermarket replaced
the little bar via Brera .
Dreamless retirees buying
their ready-made coffee for the winter...
Beatrice, I'd love to meet your daughter.
She would be an actress,calling me grandpa !
I would find that amusing and a little sad...
Bea, I am so confused for having dared
to rebuilt a false life together ...
Will we meet again via Brera
in a timeless afterlife ?
-
Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Online) - Published: November 14th, 2025 11:45
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: Ellen Marsell
Online)
Comments3
another fine write friend
Poetry reshapes failure in beauty ...
(wireless thightrope walker ,
trying to escape a webless spider ...) A great set of lines. The surreal nature of this poem is most enthralling.
What'e the value of a love based on staging ?
Only tenderness remains ...
It feels like a letter written by someone wandering through the ruins of their own soul, touching the stones with their fingers, recognizing them, and smiling with sadness. There is remorse here, and tenderness, and that quiet acceptance that comes only after a great inner shipwreck. A very delicate, touching poem with profound psychological depth.
Does this little café via Brera still exists or has it been turned into a supermarket ?
I don't dare go back to see...
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.