Surrealist poet bathed in moonlight
at the funeral of love .
Tightrope walker on a stormy road ,
where are the lyrics to the lost ballad ?
The time of happiness
is nothing more than a digital echo
as a ghostly plucked parrot chirps...
Night owl in search of an inspired star
that will lead me astray ...
Fool, playing piano on top of a cloud,
but the tears blurred the sheet music...
I am just an eccentric contralto .
Sometimes, libertine painter ,
unveiling mystery of the submissive muse .
Gentle prowler .
Or maybe ,just plain old Pierrot lunaire
lost on the cusp of rain ,
his tears stained farewell letter in hand .
Matamor,you charmed the capricious Columbine...
Must I go and gather my words
from the depths of bitter abysses ,
for fear of being sincere with them ?
September harbinger heralding the harvest ,
already a few gray strands in my golden crown !
My lord , the door of times creaks open...
On the threshold ,no one remembers the magic spell
for eternal youth ...
My friend Harlequin, do you have any ink
I could borrow ,so I can keep my logbook ?
and the spice of a burning body
when I could finally drop anchor ?
Don't mock the poor penpusher in pain !
Then,I would recognize myself in that poet
whose shadow frightens me ...
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Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 27th, 2026 11:18
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 8
- Users favorite of this poem: Friendship
Offline)
Comments3
The poet is left only to wander among the masks of the commedia dell'arte, trying to hold onto the slipping ink of life.
" Wandering along the masks" .Inspiring thema !
Surreal is an understatement of this poem. It echoes through dimensions and resounds in a black hole. There is mirth in the jester but ink is on ration so how do you paint the shadow of a poet? Very nice Lorenz
The poet is that acrobat between light and shade !
Indeed they are sometimes falling without a safety net.
Luckily we have the web !
When even your own shadow frightens you, you know you've reached peak poetic self-awareness. Harlequin, please pass the ink — and maybe a little emotional stability too.
If you think we can trust this bloody rascal of Harlequin !
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