A L L U S I O N (24.10.2011 10:55)
The autumn is too late.
A steam formed into
words
of gray.
The lights are cold
and shot is plain
and one more take
required.
The m(ist~yth). The homeless
mind. And image puzzled
into mosaic
and if the cause of grief
is mind
where should the joy
begin?
Direct and figurative speech
is in the mixture
of all styles
of lightened windows.
but there’s no sense
or root
of “true”.
No chance to get.
Accents are tinkling:
“ding-here-dong-there”.
All rhymes are fli(r~t)ting.
Males and females.
But lifted by a tongue
they leave the ball.
..The final fall
of leaves and sky
gets naked
of unnice and naught
relations.
The flame is fully off.
Good bye.
And gaze has lost,
got slightly cooler.
And not the end of page
has cut a finger tip
but cross
of notes.
And drop of sudden blood
diverting lips.
The bond is blurred,
not clean and ramified.
And mind with narrow eyes
recalls the place but all
that has been dust
of days from now on
mud.
In anteroom of dream
is opened. Ardour’s low.
Low spirit raised.
All thoughts are well composed
and shadows
live their lives.
..In real.
Road lights… their candles
fully melted
and darkness’s deep
but it consists of
sleepless lines and streaks
of postdicates and
objugates. forever
incomplete.
оригинал:
http://stihi.ru/2011/10/19/2986