Monday, December 20, 2010

by ribbons wrapped

we'll be whispering out the names we gave each other, at last,
on those rough stairs. dressed like fae in disgrace,
finally an appropriate clothing for our condition -
and maybe will be given drapes of twilight to yearn
the mood of tragedy which compass our wills,
maybe we will tear them as we torn ourselves,
pales, the bodies left among the snow on the corners of the streets,
finding a sense of homecoming between the trash and the discordia.
- a subtle grim of melancholy grown in a lab, grafted in the sarcasm,
and flowers burned with the lighter some moments before dawn
is all our cruelties.
maybe the sun itself does that kind of things to himself.
to shine and warm the lands and stuff.
- sometimes we just say hello, shorts movements of the hand,
the faces staring,
faint eye contact, like in incognito,
give a look to the sky,
dear sky,
and give to each other a proper sound to be called by,
when everything just parts.


and Carnival Bows

to adorn the desperate Hall

in which we met. we all.

our metaphysical chapel.

pieces of Hallucination,

used to feed us all:

memories merged of bleach murmurs,

and patterns sunk trough the obsess.

twinkle twinkle

we are

iris shaped by the terror

pale crystals devoured

twinkle twinkle

nor lyrics not lullabies

but skeletons

in the frozen movement of a jesterish dance.

the holes in our skulls

to blow trembling pallor once made dust.

present for my nostalgia.

It cometh from when you packed all things,
all the little stupid souvenirs,
- and all the days they hardly dare to remind
dressed like in a movie of faded photographs and yellowish diary pages.
Such a noisy film printed to my eyes
in which i repeat my clich├ęs.-

It cometh from when you contemplated the loss,
all the little stupid souvenirs,
and all the things to feel how time tastes like,
as tough sorrow was to intend as comfort,
tragical weather for our life to wander in.


cry, just,
and sleep,
in the tragic cradles,
White Bonds and Red Crosses
for the little children.

the bonds wet of red,
the crosses drenched of light white,
we invent Melancholy,
to forget our birth, our Oath to Fear,
and to cry with the eyes, silently,
in tears and petals.

and yet we wander,
desperate for a path to get lost,
we yearn to Moons, to Dawns, to Twilights,
we grasp Omens trough the insomnia
and we whisper into the Howls.

cut the veins,
to merge our throbs
with the Nature,
our apocalyptic, ancestral urge
to find something to cry,
and then sleep forever.

Licenza Creative Commons
unevens by dario mambro is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribuzione - Non commerciale - Non opere derivate 3.0 Unported License.