Delight
on the dot
It was half past three.
He was sitting by the window
Gloating through the leaves of his own
trees.
Flashes of undesired past, wrapped up in
melancholic dust,
playing string quartet at the back of his
head.
Millions of unsolved mysteries unraveling
their secrets,
Whispering into his ear their cruel intensions,
Tempering his wounds all the way up to the
sins of flesh.
It’s calm again.
A loathing wind from the west
Kissing his wrinkled forehead
Blowing the tears down to the chins
Where a long time ago he felt his lovely
princess.
Once for a brusque
He felt life again
Holding his numb fingers
Dancing on tinkle toes
Like a child of a gypsy runaway
A grinning sun right before the sunset.
It’s coming back
A curly shivering pain, hovering all over
his head
With his lips up the sky, his dirty little
carcass in closed eyes
Floating like a Fijian butterfly.
Gathering what’s left, up to the knees
He takes a bold step towards the chest
Brings out a bottle full of portion of hell
A long deep breath, splits of silence
A long last look to all the loose ends
Does he have one? Perhaps.
How he never felt even for a second
This would all be over with such regrets.
Suddenly a sharp voice!
From the far-east end.
Suddenly a thrill chills his spine,
Like a call from a whistling angel.
What on earth could that be?
Rushing to the window he freezes to death
A stunning nightingale singing in heavens
name, echoing whispers through his head;
This might not be over; this might not be
the end
This could all be written, once again.
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