This poem has the shape of a mirror,
The mirror has your face:
Quick sculptures emerge from the mind,
With grace of fountains it spills,
Waters of memory
Buried deep in a stormy sky,
Hexahedrons of every moment
Form a cage of infinite faces,
I cannot look away.
I sink into the many sided eyes,
The apparitions of making love,
This poem is your world imperceptibly
Populating the prisms of my heart,
The empty rooms grow more
And more secluded,
I am petrified into your mind,
Your body of light blinding,
Thick drops of ink bleed from me,
Final cigarette
Where the dawn comes to haunt,
A laughter
Like a foliage of sounds
In the meadow of us,
But you are everywhere
And not here with me,
I write a passionate calligraphy
On the dark corridors of the soul,
You are manifest lasting as long
As these words of shrapnel
Travel the echoes of the polyhedra.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 8:41 PM UTC
This poem has the shape of a mirror,
The mirror has your face:
Quick sculptures emerge from the mind,
With grace of fountains it spills,
Waters of memory
Buried deep in a stormy sky,
Hexahedrons of every moment
Form a cage of infinite faces,
I cannot look away.
I sink into the many sided eyes,
The apparitions of making love,
This poem is your world imperceptibly
Populating the prisms of my heart,
The empty rooms grow more
And more secluded,
I am petrified into your mind,
Your body of light blinding,
Thick drops of ink bleed from me,
Final cigarette
Where the dawn comes to haunt,
A laughter
Like a foliage of sounds
In the meadow of us,
But you are everywhere
And not here with me,
I write a passionate calligraphy
On the dark corridors of the soul,
You are manifest lasting as long
As these words of shrapnel
Travel the echoes of the polyhedra.
