In my desorganizer, yesterow and tomorday
interwine as I wait for a fictional date
that has already taken place ...
---------------------------------
Do you remember that day tomorrow
when our eyes spoke to each other
even before the first glance ?
The encounter still belongs
to the future perfect sens ...
A mysterious watchmaker is about to disturb
the heart of my lady of the hours .
You have to make up a backstory
when the sleight of mind goes wrong ...
Perhaps I met you in the reflection
of a fleeting courvature ?
collection of moments in the hues
of an endless pastel ,that I would like
to offer you through the crack of the screen...
Exchanging that first glance as fragranced promise
evenough it's all over already ...
My love stories spiral into fractal sleepless nights...
You ,haunting my imaginary map ,
I'd like to invent a memory ,where I haven't
love you yet ...
Riddle of an encounter when with regrets
the last line is read ...
when everyone drinks to the presence
of the one who will never return ...
sometimes we regret the words we'll never say .
I haven't forgotten that day when we didn't meet .
So naively thinking that yesterday would last forever
and tomorrow was already over ...
Clocks lie dormant in dreams
and only a forbidden kiss ,
will awaken the sleeping princess ...
My desorganizer is a liar .
Lady of spads ,your prom a nightmare.
Always waiting for you ,
even though you didn't come ...
-
Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 8th, 2026 11:24
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: Ellen Marsell
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Comments3
To wait endlessly for one who will never come, and to hold a strange loyalty to someone never encountered...
Your poem leaves behind the lingering scent of a 'fragranced promise' that dissolves into ash as soon as the last line is read.
Apart from its adverbial form the word '' time '' never appears ,even though it's everywhere present...
A poem of incompletions and negations that makes sense in a surreal world.
This device called a ''Desorg '' is similar to a compass that does point north but toward the '' Never was '' and the '' already gone ''..
Jack Sparrow's compass from Pirates of the Caribbean
A quiet ache runs through every line .....
Beautifully written .
Imagination reshapes time in the realm of the unsaid...
You are a born poet .
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