(Repost an entry, bitterness adjusted. Another dawn-post.)
Empty are the ways of this land.
EmPty were the souls I saw when I grew up.
Are the souls that grow up.
The poet sat there with a child on his lap.
was he a phantom ? Was he real ?
did he even exist, in that house she called one of spirits ?
no matter what, he used to be there
and the rooms were filled with rythms of tenderness
it caressed freedom’s soft white wings
there was flying and there was beauty
There, used to be a September
There used to
_be a room in which The poet sat
____sat no more
He who made the proses sang is now dead
____rooms which were filled with love
are now cracked of despair
a song of emptiness echoed through the corridors
intercept hope, oh, that sweet thing, surely and always
there used to be a time
__used to be a time
there used to be a thing
//they can’t destroy
from which we build again
are the ways of this time
is the room of angels, a forsaken eternal night
are the babies…(they have fathers and mothers alright)
are the old and wrinkly lullabies
is that thing once gave us power
are the feelings they waiting for September
now, and forever, till the end of time
in my hand, empty
is this glass of wine
the heartbeats, cold
is this withering night
can’t remember, absent
is the scent of yours
mine, yearning, endlessly
to be recognized