It's snowing on yesterday .
But it's only wet rain
on memories in black and gray
who no longer believe in may...
Old film summerified
on unspoken words
and missed opportunities ...
Moods deposit by a paranoid angel
with a touch of old blues
on a few cubist delusions ...
At the " Beatles bar ''
the scarves of the repentants
are reincarnated as ropes
for hanged men...
The seraph turns to ketamine
and serves the customer
with some parables to keep up appareances
by giving up the change ...
I lost the lyrics of the dead lovers .
Tomorrow,who knows, the four boys
blowing in the wind will return in april...
My cup of coffee grimaces ,
the evil genius ,I am ,has gone away
without offering me an exit face ...
Liveless farce .
I may die here ...
Fall asleep in a nonchalant
Goldberg variation
thrown into the trouble dream
of the misery river ...
Think of your poor friend ,
so bored in the paradise of lost poets.
chanting the praises of the lord
for one melody of eternity ...
It's still snowing on yesterday,
but its just a wet rain from a farewell raga time...
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Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: November 20th, 2025 11:52
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
- Users favorite of this poem: Ellen Marsell
Offline)
Comments2
A collage of images and some of the past in the present. So many people bring the past into the present which is usually cold water to what ever is in the present. Nice Lorenz
Time only exists for those who believe in it !
It may not exist for them either.
In a remarkable way, this text is built around moods, almost like a piece of jazz improvisation. Its emotional, “metaphysical distortion” of reality makes the images come alive. I definitely enjoyed reading it.
You have perfectly deciphered the musical score of this little composition !
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