There comes a time …

“That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline, and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel, and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.” ~ Pablo Neruda, Walking Around

* * * * *

There comes a time …

There comes a time, I’m tired of stories-
feckless, empty, of daydreams without
blithe ends, sulfur- colored, collapsing,
supple under lachrymal gliding in a sea of ashes.

I’m in here, trapped and fatigue, inside a bygone maze
and the spice of brutally cold walls stops me pretending
that I believe in amity miracles and love flowers,
a lifetime collected in a crack of agony.

There comes a time, I’m tired of thinking,
my dark heart and my even darker silhouette,
they are just fallen rebels in the lost era of butterflies.

And it would be good if I could learn to fly again,
in the middle of the night, through medieval châteaux
or through roof tops of avant-garde skyscrapers.
But it will be all the same, because
it so happens that I’m tired of wearing a mask
and the mornings burn with moistureless creativity.

`

Moistureless creativity

`

© 2013  Broken Sparkles

`

10 Responses to “There comes a time …”

  1. Philippa Drake Says:

    Absolutely marvellous.

  2. Jamie Dedes Says:

    Ah, yes, sometimes the stories we tell ourselves get old, the muse dries up, \ our daily mask becomes worn, our wings are weighed-down with sadness, ennui, disappointment, dullness … but, you know, in the end the sun always does rise again. It’s all about liminal space.

    Beautifully done and a wonderful – perfect – photo to go with. You’re on a roll, Blaga!

  3. deadpoet88 Says:

    Beautiful and sad words. Great to see a poem from you again :)
    Yes, I often long to fly too, and the lack of inspiration kills me sometimes. I want it back, but sometimes it seems so lost. And I wonder if I do want it back after all. :)

    I hope you’re back to writing :) you’ve been much missed


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