Life as a dramedy

I write poetry, to avoid the tragedy

that conveys the apple of memories,

and teeth that bite in the freshness of days,

until the core is thin, and thin is awareness.

　

Rolling the dew, like stones,

moonbathing under that wished-for face

limbs tangled, licking the smoke

from the heart that went out of whimsy,

a beach that is tippling the blue,

from upper you,

such beauty makes the sight sweat,

such sweat are tears,

and the morning elegance

is washing off the years

that dared to nestle

in the hollow of our naked perceptions.

　

As I was watching

at first glance evening ordinaire,

I remembered words dancing

to the rhymes of Baudelaire,

and wolves laying down

as innocent as the lambs,

their cotton

as abounding as silk,

covering the sonnets in my eyes.

I write poetry, knowing life is a dramedy,

and the mist, rubbing herself

on the old skin of trees, is nothing but a wet memory

wanting to be the dust, blown towards better eternity.

© 2010. Tihana Novosel