Wordsworth faded, Frost dispersed.
Heavens left its fluff and feathers
on a windless pool of verse.
Just in case, I brew the weather.
What a heady tinge of rains
comes with fricatives and litters…
Every breath I lose is fain,
less precise, transfixed and bitter.
Sadness rationed and decayed.
Rarely picky and incisive
are the streams beneath sharp blades.
In a noose they get too pricey.
Counting crows and solar blots…
help with heavens’ lubrication.
I just need to nail three dots
after all like-beat summations.
Freeze, don’t make a lousy stomp.
Shadows couldn’t be out-bended.
Only fools and kids can romp.
Chain-bowl gaps shall stay extended.
Eyes will see you to the door.
Take a seat, become a mecca,
bleeding heart where is no more…
icons made of stars and echoes.
December 3, 2010
My ration
© Copyright: Юрий Лазирко, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110120309894
Свидетельство о публикации №110120309894
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