I want to run away and stay
in the uncertainty of this evasion
that longs for its own prison...
I mourn these poems imbued with grandeur
that bloom upon your icy grave.
To the crowd of lewd devotees ,
offering my ambiguous desires ...
Mind that relishes suffering as it gazes at itself
in the amnesia of the mirror...
I will still confront the evil within you
that laughs at me ...
Married under the ancestral law of widowhood,
I take the oath to rip off your nun's habit
to sin with delectation !
drama performed in psychorequiem .
It's you ,damned fool speaking through me ?
Irresistible urge to bloom this dead love
which has not yet come to life ...
you haunt me with your virginal crime !
scarlet drop on the white satin ...
Perhaps ,must I journey to the very end
of the nightmare ,to sit at the devil's table
and share its feast ?
The last glass smashed on the floor ,
my soul traded for a few meager prayers
and humble alms ,
I'll scream at this mute inside me :
'' Shut up stupid fool -no one's listening your rambling ! ''
sailing solo in my loneliness .
'' Please Mr executioner just a little eternity to atone ! ''
You my cursed sister in this orchard of broken vows .
Each of these lies, told to seduce you and to teach me
how to die in memoriam ...
Brave old gallows !
So I can lose you all over again .
Illusory ecstasy of a lunar orgasm !
My ambivalence ...
-
Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 14th, 2026 11:02
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: Ellen Marsell, Carlos Alberto BUSTILLOS, Tristan Robert Lange, Sealgair
Offline)
Comments4
A philosophical dreamscape, steeped in Gothic shadows and psychological ambiguity.
The aesthetic dimension of ambiguity in love...
The Gothic drips from it as the scarlet upon white satin
A text that does not resolve the ambivalence but gives it a voice .
exactly, its voice is heard
The voice of the mute within us ...
Plastic fruit hangs from the tree of knowledge where a rubber snake sits in the grass. Fine write my friend watch out for those nun's habits if not dirty at least perverse.
The thrill of sacred transgression...
Is that like holy perversion?
Wow, Lorenz...this is dark, theatrical, and psychologically charged. It feels like a struggle between longing, memory, shame, and desire, all refusing to let the other win. That ambivalence is everywhere. Excellent piece, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Poetry is to give the impossible a room in which it may remain without being forced to become true .
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