The monster outside
The skin is thick and deep with grey
pleading for a little joy in shades of pink
the soul is blank and hollow in darkness
asking for a little warmth in tones of stars
the heart is silent and still rainbow monochrome
begging for a life-giving little jolt of blue
the bones are frozen, attached in ice clear
aching aloud for a reprieve of flesh of warm red
a mind hovers inside in fiery lament
wanting only for a bit of hours to exist
yet it is only a grunt unheard of the colourful ones
in the prison of the lone, the sentence is eternal
the death remains of nauseating flavours
the living will once again keep safe distance.
The bus will be late again this Sunday
under the century mist on a cold winter bench
old fools must wait, their gaze upon a gate
to a paradise invisible to the passers-by.
The city sleeps still in a shroud of oblivion
lives have slipped into their temporary tomb
worn to pieces by the inferno of infinite routines
while last trees cry dying leaves upon the icy pavement.
The two might sleep for a little while
he holding tight onto the shiny tank
she dragging on a greyish cloud of ash
ancient as the traditions graved on monuments.
Unseen, living in the wrinkly bubble of their age
they seek the hesitant gaze of the other
memories built upon the fresh bones of infants
a smile shy as a fleeting moment escapes the universe.
They laugh no more to the keen eye of the observer
the flesh has fallen off the crackling frames
leaving senseless messages of passed lives
upon the pavement welcoming to their shameless survival.
The decades have built fortresses around their secrets
shriveled breasts kindly placed onto an altar
still beat with the passion of a single score
carrying too many years to count, they love for all times.
Scent of the Ancient Ball
There is a dim ray of a future behind the cracks of the ramparts
sounds emanate from the twirling shapes of silken whites
while the stone burns with the icy flames of the prison.
To be part of this strange ball but a dream in the depths
inhaling fumes of a past reverie poison or elixir
aiming to taste what remains of the ghostly dance.
The heavy oaken gate persists in its temerity
its lock rusted melts into torrents of a bloody paste
no drawbridge will again annihilate the cruel moat.
It is a tower of ivory, mother of pearl, diamond and silver
treasure for the hungry to be consumed perhaps too late
where she is surrounded by the death-defying maidens.
Centuries go by, she continues in her light genuflection
hands joined in a prayer searching only communion
one with all, pure of soul as once of body.
The presence is signed on the old photograph hanging
there on the left wall, by the window built of trusted
hands, while outside the tree wants attention.
He too can write on the pane of the ancient glass.
Finger prints on the side of the redwood desk, tend
to the forgotten elbow, never fully able to rest on
the worn-out couch, trampoline for young charm.
It hoped its future would be of leather; but not so.
The room screams with memories it alone keeps safe;
the air is filled with sparring souls attempting an accord;
freckles of dust, sparks of their little power inflamed.
Wishing they had landed on the feature of a Mona Lisa.
Unwilling to shine, the lamp, secure under her banged shade,
would like to jump at them and empower their dying light,
while planted on the thinning carpet, they remain quiet.
Waiting for another moment, another time, to become.
Song of the grave
The stone is barren
it was once broken
now it awaits.
Cold it may seem
yet warm in truth
smooth and perfect
it shines as many stars.
The rock draws
like a magnet
as so many tears.
Let fall come
and a palette
of colours in oils and pastels
it will glow in the fog.
flakes glitter and blind
forever lasting chagrin
a wonder smooth as granite.
The river runs near
singing it melody
murmur of hope
in eternity renewed.
The sun returns
lighting its fire
life is reborn
on a single tomb.