Such a Cliche

I

A lull has descended upon,
These paintings sitting forlorn,
They speak to me no longer,
Of things asleep yonder,
Failing my Memory,
Within silent reveries.

II

I find myself alone,
On a night where, mist
Rises like a demon,
hoping for a song.


III

It is a foggy morning,
like the one yesterday
and the one day before.
The land is covered in water spots:
it's raining.
Grass, like trees,
has begun to brown
awaiting autumns attempt
to renew them.
The local trains
move slow and cautious,
some in deep slumber.
Some, as human containers
parked away like spice boxes,
on a busy kitchen shelf.

IV

On sleepless, still nights,
I read about rivers and women,
Stories of men,
That hardly exist,
In these saintly brawls.

V

I hear sleep,
in a room faraway,
Where a mystic watches over,
Swaying to the silent breathing,
Almost falling,
Always still.


VI

Sounds of love, from the death of days
Deep, buried, slow.
Sounds of love,
In unnoticed corners,
craving lovers, craving ghosts,
Absent almost.


VII

There are statues,
and there are statues,
Some stand with indignation,
Uninspiring and pedantic,
Some with vulnerability,
Exuding sexual ambiguity;
These two philistines,
made themselves see,
Without being seen,
now free, so free,
so alone
and so dead.


VIII

Drunk on youth,
Because there are things,
Unmentioned yet,
Not at least to those
Who need to hear them.

IX

'Let us braid hope, and paradox'
'let's not'
'Will make for a strong whip'
'...or perhaps a noose?'

X

This is not,
one of those almost winter evenings,
Where crows are a plenty,
The sky drains,
It's hazy sorrow upon the eyes.
The moon will be overhead,
rambling of evenings past,
an embrace trapped in the wind,
somewhere.


My train arrives soon,
On the other side,
And this epistolary,
seems to scare none.