I carry within me the fading image of a city I never known .
I wrote it in feverish lines begging for another life.
Memory wanders on the rain square ...
Perhaps to hide the rustly tears of the old king statue ?
I haven't it yet invented a geography where death
didn't know my adress to come .
Sometimes it knocks at my door with a bouquet
of wilted flowers ...
I am nothing more than a chapter of the past
in the making .
So it leaves me a '' Came by " note
and goes off to stir up the neighbor's regrets ...
It's a city where even the echo of silence dreams...
Slender black birds dressed up for sunday ,
fly over the wide boulevards
and sometimes stop at the last known adress...
I'm telling you about a city where people
politely greet the walls ...
We can't bring mummies back to life ,
they're doomed to be late forever .
I don't carry the burden of lost loves
that I once believed in ...
On the street of tormented souls ,no expiation .
Urban vagabond asks the hour for absolution.
I am going home where the clock made my potion.
I know how it's slowly poisoning me...
I am crazy about the taste of this green fairy .
Cats roam the hidden side of the night .
At the adress where I don't live yet ,
who's knocking at my door so late ?
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Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 16th, 2026 11:05
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: Ellen Marsell
Offline)
Comments3
good write much enjoyed
Thank you Norman !
We are never fully present, never fully complete; we are always in the process of becoming, always arriving at an address where we do not yet live.
My prception of a paradimensional time !
Surreal and dark this poem beckons and calls but does not answer. Nicely done Lorenz
Do we live in anticipation of what we will become ?
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