Dan Enache Poet Free verse

WEAVING ABYSSES

WEAVING ABYSSES

For seven nights the sky has wept with tears of molten mercury and cold,
My dreams stretch out like black water over fields that never fold.
I knead inside a cosmic clay bowl dough that tastes of distant stars,
I blend parallel heavens into the fragrance of rebellious galaxies and scars.

I make lace from a quill of bone and night while weaving echoes deep and frayed,
Strings of pearls pour endlessly into valleys where suns and stars have stayed.
I wake the blue butterflies from their sleep of amber mist and haze,
And burn them on the silken skin of mornings lost inside a hollow daze.

You with hands as masterful as those of a god who stands in wonder,
Gather dandelion seeds from the threshold between the real and the dawn asunder.
You build sleeping dreams in towers of holy thought and sacred silence,
And thoughts drift slow as incense smoke through the rooms of pain and compliance.

A flame that sparks inside the deepest and the sweetest of all darkness,
A sublime dream with tender calling from the place where time seeks rest and calmness.
The serpent coiled eccentrically around the axis of the world lies worn and tired,
Chewing bitter moments inside the cone of sleep where all forgetting is desired.

And in your eyes swim galaxies with arms of silk and smoldering ember,
The universe spins inside your pupils like a bitter carousel of December.
You hide the word longing inside your warm palms like a secret blessed and holy,
Karma revolts in fury screaming through every dying fire and wind that blows slowly.

The sun of beauty blinded by the brightness of its own reflected light,
With golden rays caresses a body drained by love and worn by night.
Like a candle burning at both ends throughout the very same dark evening,
The body loved too deeply and dissolved inside its own rare flame still breathing.

My thoughts are a garden of flowers swarming with whispers of love alive,
A painting of magic in colors that no joy on earth could ever archive.
Pastels and symphonies of happiness all blended with tears of crystal and of glass,
Echoes of hands that touched just once and never learned to let the moment pass.

I call your name humming softly through shattered stars and valleys carved and deep,
The echo chains me in the beautiful void with arms so long and gentle in their sweep.
I cross the horizon flying on wings sewn together from unspoken longing and desire,
Into your chest I light a small oil lamp borrowed from a world that burns up higher.

Flickering just to feel your shadow on the ancient byzantine stained glass and stone,
Where saints are painted with sapphire eyes and lips of cherry darkly sown.
Fire burning in your chest shattered into crystal shards that cut and ache and smart,
Cutting and healing in the very same gesture for a thousand years of heart.

I light the flame of love inside an inkwell made of midnight pitch and coal,
I wipe the quill clean of every sin that deserved to burn on an empty brazier bowl.
A flood of dreams knocks me down from my tower of light and breaks me into pieces,
They shatter into eternity like a mirror that goes silent and slowly releases.

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