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Poem

In a library where time has paused to rest its heavy wings,
two shadows float among the rows like phantoms lost in ink,
where smoke rises like memories of a forgotten dream,
two souls meet and burn like two stars in the endless night:
Your coat carries the scent of absinthe and dreams that drift in melancholy,
are you a poet or a shadow lost among pages of yellowed paper?
I am both, beloved Bard, a blend of life and despair flowing gently,
for my decay is an elixir that seduces and intoxicates wandering souls,
and you, with your daggers of words, have tamed shadows—what is death compared to this?
Do you rhyme to seduce, to embrace suffering, or to scatter it like a bell's echo?
I seduce through suffering, for pleasure is sweeter when sung at the sunset of eternity.
Your muse is a spider weaving dreams in the dark corners of thought,
mine is a drunken sprite whispering poems to the ear of night's silence.
And yet, our webs capture essences of different worlds, we weave in parallel universes,
yours capture kings and the shadows of power dancing in the light of old candles,
mine capture angels weeping with lines of ink running like rivers down their cheeks.
Shall we drink something?
Only if it's hemlock or sweet poison with honey, for death's kiss is a forbidden fruit.
Perfect. I'll summon the ghosts, you bring the cup of destiny and we'll dive into it.
Thus, two centuries meet in a duel of words and echoes of silence,
a spectacle for those who would have come to steal verses from unheard whispers,
with Rimbaud on our lips and wine flowing like a river of forgetfulness through the vein of time.

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