A breath after a sigh,
I sink still lower.
Imagination plumbs
the precipices of time.
Will I never redeem myself
from this reality
or perhaps illusion?
Now that I think of it again,
I already hear the creaking clangor
of eternal chains.
The future becomes more and more cramped.
Existence seems to defile itself
among the recesses of the heart.
From the balcony
that looks toward the Creation,
among the iridescent,
fragile organza
of the twilight
plushy gliding by,
I venture into the doodles
of an arabesque of filigree,
colorful, liquid,
hovering toward the stars.
Utopias dance there,
punctuated by alien prosody.
They take the thrust toward exotic,
unknown worlds.
I surrender myself to the sweetness
of the evening aura
that inlays corals
among the plexuses of the soul.
I am a lion without a savannah.
You, my love,
you make my dreams pulsate,
among the evanescent holograms,
of ice,
of flame,
of silence.
Even this night,
fleeting, endless,
has glissaded away.
The lark trills,
the quartz aurora smiles,
glowing like a rose,
again, it sprouts.
Toutes les droites appartiennent à son auteur Il a été publié sur e-Stories.org par la demande de Mauro Montacchiesi.
Publié sur e-Stories.org sur 09.09.2014.
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