I sit at the table.
Outside, clouds and some dogs,
old lies, passengers to hell,
coldness and bland truth of war hurts,
night butterflies screaming their end
and dreams playing their divine dance
which we, mortals, cannot see.
Outside there is transience and aging
birth and death simple as the Bible,
perfection and disharmony in the same cage,
knives and penalties on the same day,
memory and oblivion in the deserted hour.
Outside everything is normal as I thought;
the sun falls behind the cemetery
clouds pouring into the cradle.
We cannot do anything
except observe
and mindlessly stare in amazement.
Outside - the life flows
and marches without forgiveness,
writing a book about progress and self-destruction,
talks about us without saying one nice word
and escapes with a face full of cynicism
behind the door of transience in which we all participate.
It is me sitting inside again
at the table in front of the machine,
I'm talking about jealousy,
oblivion and accident
disease and severe grief.
Sober as an animal in its biggest fear,
with a cigarette,
satisfied with another new stake
although it is old as the dawn.
Sober without wine and fury
far from Tin, far from Baudelaire,
and very close to myself.
And I'm not cold like once in the darkness
because now gently the light is burning,
a tiny glowing newborn hope,
sober without wine and fury
with a glass of cold rhymes
I am at the end with my ink.
rikpoems.com