AN OLD CRISIS

p

o

e

m

The love wouldn’t clot,

Unless freed and distanced

Where it shall acquaint

And revel in new hearts.

Clouded centuries of,

Criminal days

Deploying the conspiring airs

To dance to the melancholic dreams

Of a distanced damsel

To her odes and elegies,

For centuries to come.

A broken mirror.

Telling pieces of life

Of warm winters and wry summers

Of random lovers and rose garlands

You should know better

Stoic indolence

And sly humor

To feather a suspicious heart

To mask a material dream

Or maybe a cruel fear

Lash the blood off the tender veins

Not a blatant betrayal

Of the devotional soul

For it shall collapse

For once and for all

Great anarchy

In the earth’s womb

Bearing the pain

Of generations to come

In the middle of the night

Consumed by the anarchic flood

Of mutinies and mayhem

She delivers and drowns

In her own existential blood.


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