Dan Enache Poet Free verse

THE TOLLGATES OF TOPAZ

THE TOLLGATES OF TOPAZ

I read the burn and feed with pills of pleasure
the twilight bricked into troubled walls, swollen with vigil,
throbbing with a greedy hunger that is never satisfied,
starving for your silhouette woven out of living words,
a breathing poem, with metaphors in motion,
melted slowly into the musk of a euphoric reverie…
O white force, unbridled stallion of the dawn,
the bona fide heat that breathes in the blind breeze
over the fragile fingers of my unclothed heart
walk me out of the devious doors of the demented dream,
let me flow toward the realm of quenching quietude,
where condemning pupils do not padlock
the tongue that tastes the bitter flavor of foreverness.
They are not moved by the thorns that bleed in silence,
painfully wanting, sleeplessly yearning to trace
the honest waves, catalyzing the spark that waits
to escape the cross-eyed fables fabricating the fragrance
of my zealous love, your rose lady,
restless to bloom as one with the runes written
along your ambidextrous armor of silver.
I am tattered and torn, stuck in a cycle scrutinized by eyes,
and still I refuse to let these petals wilt;
I let my thoughts wander into the waking wilderness,
where gypsy blossoms caress and nurture the penetrating
luster of pearl-light sepals,
like my damask spirit, still unstained
by sepulchral ashes, by the chains of charcoal.
I care not for their callous clamor, for the cruelty
hollowed out in charismatic lies, deciphering
my virtuous dawn as a dangerous delirium to be driven off;
so take me away, to the flawless fields,
bathed in orange topaz skies, where the dust
still remembers what all living things were called.
If we are to turn to dust, then let us be the dust
that settles on the keys of a piano left out in the rain
and makes it play alone, without hands, without forgiveness;
a powder of fireflies over the city that denied us,
a stardust breathing in the lungs of the morning,
two silences that recognize each other and ask for nothing more.

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Alison A Smith nee Howarth July 29, 2026 at 4:31 AM The experience of a poet (or deeply feeling person) whose inner world—sensual, imaginative, and sincere—is pathologized by society. The “beloved” becomes both muse and co-conspirator in escaping that distortion, leading to a space where meaning exists without judgment.