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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required In the morning mist, flowers sip wormwood vinegar, Their petals weep stars, with the taste of full bitterness, Through the crystal of the new autumn, I see you split in the mirror, You are the boundary between light and the hungry darkness. On one side, I call you paradise, on the other, I call you hell, An absolute blandness, like an unfinished, eternal chess game, Cardboard emperors play us in the tavern of the minute, Applause are chains, slaves are the suite's spectators. I lost my alphabet in the extinguished skein of thought, A cranial bird pecks at a defeated scream, Its harmonious cry cuts the fog like an axe, And yet it sounds like a snowdrop asking for help. From the white snow of winter, we dream of green in fine dust, To revive the grass within you, yellow-divine spring, You persist in me like wine forgotten in a vessel, Your vapor intoxicates me and I forget my name, the clock. On the table of chance, your eyes are smoke balls, Spinning on the greenery of a pathless hazard, We like to gamble silence on the stake of a longing, And we lose with elegance, like a transient king. The great make emo-action, we mime emo-me, They put applause, bread, and reverie on our lips, From my chest, an orchestra of needles pulls out oaths, Scores rain on handkerchiefs, piercing quiet calms. From pronouns descends a god with a liquid name, So many you and I, that the sky becomes an avid owner, It leases time from us and sows it into weak nerves, Harvests silences from us, like from a hasty vineyard. I give everyone your face, like an icon of longing, To make faith from love, their altar, I weave from pink longings, crowns for foreheads, And share you like bread, on bridge-less Sundays. Flowing through me as halves, like a river without a ford, You wash away the ashes of thought, leaving me in pale gold, I place an autumn at your temples, with the taste of gentle wormwood, And learn to sip you slowly, from the cup of air and pain. When the mind forgets its wine and footsteps no longer insist, I remain a tunnel of notes, a symphony of sadness, But if you breathe me, I sprout again from winter, And in the palm of the world, I open a rare ball of light. Then, my love, I stretch you on the thin wire of day, To let all pass and learn what it means not to die, For those who make faith from your heart become Needles that pin the sky to the skin, so it no longer bursts from me. And if they ask where the pure meaning begins, I will tell them: in the drop where I saw you doubled, Where paradise and hell hold hands in the mud, And from the bitter wormwood, a honey is born within us.
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