The estival morning will become detached in a short time the plutonic night,
will I be free, or the worry of the new day will invade me?
Fulminating sensation,
you are covered behind my desires and anxieties,
idlenesses and desperations,behind my murrain,my hatred,or the correct thing is now compassion?
Uncomfortable sensation!
Dumb!
I don't care whatever that it may be !
The only thing I know is that it's dark and annoying,
is an hypocritical desolation destroyer,
destroyer of all songs, exploitative and provocative of all my sorrows.
How a wood-worm,who would say it better!
A wood-worm that undoes the puzzle of my being,
makes me roll,
that makes me shout upsets me!
Already I know that you hide prophet!
Already I know which is my feel!
My feel is that of whale stopped on a beach far, far away from its home,
its home,the great blue.
Sensation,put piety towards the sea of silver.
Τear spilt in its sedate,
h
ug of angel that it returns to me with a wave, a wave of blue velvet.
The sensation goes away here in the sea!
My feel now is that I can fly as a bird,that I can breath, that I can shout!
I analyze again what I write,
a sorrow,a fear invades me again.
Is existencialist what I have written?
Probably now I know with more brightness what means the sensation,but it floats!
It floats as a ruined country.
Floats as broken lifes,
broken dreams,
broken hearts,
broken stories,
broken heros,
really,
it floats as broken minds.
YOU ARE READING
Words Of Wasp
PoetryFar between sundown's finish and midnight's broken toll. We ducked inside the doorways, thunder went crashing. As majestic bells of bolts struck shadows in the sounds. Seeming to be the chimes of freedom flashing.
