deserted fountain

perhaps i could start like neruda

we could retire to our private horizons in a venetian gondola

and there we would kiss  till i die..

no, then , i know even dreams are not that merciful..

and romance has  not been my forte , 

since we chose to burn the small town down..

 

everytime a word or a phrase that would twist itself

into that funny place between love and dream 

in a cosy poem, presents itself

i dread it, transform it into a passage about 

kindness , charity or sympathy

and finally smother it out of existence.....

 

and then i mourn alone

the slow death of  a flower 

that blooms in a forbidden city

everytime  a man falls in love...

and withers 

when his love dries up...

 

the sadness is in drying up..

and

in waking up at odd times 

knowing you cant really love again

Reviews

[bookworm]

This is insanely good. I don't know if I've ever read anything like it before. You really have a very unique voice and your observations are magnificent...I'm blown away by the second stanza...holy God...seriously..I get that more than I care to admit. Beautiful work.