To you, I turn,
I implore you,
my bohemian heart.
Trusted friend,
precious ruby.
I ask you to sprinkle me
with psychedelic rays of the sun,
with neroli orange blossoms.
I ask you to pace the breath of existence
so that I may consume it with more tenuous vigor.
I beg you to push away the moment
of the last battle.
Fate casts the slime
on the curtain of life.
It is almost a utopia
to put order
among the memories of the past,
calculate
the impervious climb to Golgotha,
the waivers with the aroma of absinthe,
the lost affection,
entwined
in the fluid arabesques of time.
And then I realize that you,
my bohemian heart,
trusted friend,
precious ruby,
warmest love,
you still crave.
Tonight, I am stunned,
anodyne,
in the din of silence.
My fingers reach out,
toward imaginary smiling lips.
It is a transcendent epiphany,
amid dim glimpses of the moon,
and then higher still,
among evanescent filigrees of stars.
I try to awaken the seconds
sleeping in the pain-killing river Lete,
waiting for the return
of kisses eclipsed
in the treasure chest of years,
lost in the surf of oblivion.
My bohemian heart,
my most trusted friend,
precious ruby,
as metaphysical glissando of a harp,
away faded is the bohemian life
with its green age,
mad and gypsy.
How fortunate,
however,
to have it,
albeit with a frenzy of color,
savored.
Alle Rechte an diesem Beitrag liegen beim Autoren. Der Beitrag wurde auf e-Stories.org vom Autor eingeschickt Mauro Montacchiesi.
Veröffentlicht auf e-Stories.org am 10.09.2014.
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