I traced again and again
the outline of my dreams
until nothing was left
but charcoal tones
in a grayish cloud
dream outline
Archives de catégorie : prosepoem
topic of conversation
I’m learning today that I am no more
(maybe never was)
a topic of conversation.
Who should I thank for that ?
What for ?
You visit me at night, mostly,
a shadow, the past. Another
life, maybe. I wake up
panting. What for ?
But cabbage trees surely have a soul artificial pond
in front of the artificial pond,
I do not expect much
Yet
debris are shimmering
(it all depends on the angle)
the patience of the hands
the color of the sea reminded me of your eyes, green, on the iron bars, in the vertigo of the air, the impatience of the hands, clinging, that's for sure, to the twigs of history, near the coast. That was in the evening.