Prisoner of a forgotten time
in which every fragments
is a different reality .
Chained within a clock
who has never smiled ,
each tick tock evoking
a possible future ...
I watch my visage in the
looking- glass of unborn hours ,
traveler of the uncreated ,
ever refashioning my mirages...
Time,you are a fleeting lie
woven from the loom of nothingness...
At every heart beat ,hands dissolve
the ink of errors and illusions ,
for the price paid in faded memories,
sold on the black market of paradoxes...
My tale is but a whisper etched
in the great ledger of departed echoes .
Conceived from the imperfect dance ,
information you will return .
Cog in the intelligent geometry .
Is this nothing more than a mechanical theater
where golden puppets act out their destinies
in the shimmering mist of a feverish dream .
illuminated by dying stars ?
The drama is cast .
spectral drifter chasing the phosphorescent
glow of my own silhouette through a fog
steeped in a scent of dementia...
Before disapearing from your accusing stare .
Timeless ambiguity ...
-
Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 2nd, 2026 11:03
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments2
Lorenz, the “golden puppets” image got me. Are we actually creating what comes next, or just performing something already cast while convincing ourselves we’re improvising? That question hangs beautifully over the ending. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️
This question is philosophically interesting ...It touches of an existential dramatic art .
This piece asks many questions
A lot of answers without any real questions ...
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.