
I.
Alone,
mourning pale yellow light
as velvet plum wine reflects
a vacuum sea of stars
struggling to penetrate
the city’s glare.
Without rational passion,
without positive prostitution,
without damaged ears to hear
or bloodshot eyes to read,
alone with my
reckless creation,
all around,
all stillness,
all movement
is without.
Hands compelled to
write with open honesty
are stunted by caution,
my remora
fattened upon the
volatile words
of a weary brain
as they drip
down through
to fingertips
in a parade
of ink beasts,
vowels and consonants
shaping a strained reality
determined to undermine
the foundation
of these precious
fleeting moments
where there’s still
life to live.
This thing on my mind
leaves me stranded
without option,
without power,
without a plausible solution,
giving birth
to coded abstracts,
disguising the truth and
feeding from within,
replacing the me
with the nothing.
II.
Were I to know unmitigated satisfaction,
I might die in its arms.
Renee Novosel
All Rights Reserved
Copyright 2014
Very,very, good!
Anthony
Thank you!
“…mourning pale yellow light
as velvet plum wine reflects…”
Brilliant imagery throughout as well 🙂 great poem!
Thank you so very much!