Dan Enache Poet Free verse

Under the world's eyelid, an old eye still dreams in ashes

Under the world's eyelid, an old eye still dreams in ashes,
rust of gods in wingbeats that no longer listen,
a forest of shadows spreads in my chest, like a hand
that touches a heart-scream, an ancient wound.
In a cracked temple, time bleeds into the mirror,
each second – a claw that grips into flesh,
memory drains down the temple of the thought that I die,
but my soul remains locked in a dream without flight.
I've dug in silences with teeth of glassy words,
to find a light that knows all things are beautiful,
even death – dancing barefoot in visceral snows,
whispered to me that love is weeping in banal forms.
Stars without outline flow beneath my flesh, slowly,
like a prayer that forgets to be concrete,
and then I thought: what if I'm just a poem,
written by a god drunk on night, lost in the system?
In a corner of the abyss, I carry my body of crushed leaf,
autumn no longer descends, but climbs toward wounded thoughts,
while a vulture of salt drinks from my eyes the lonely weeping,
calling a silence that screams in the tongue of ether.

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