New York sketch 2

At dawn doors turn
The revolver of time
Begins its greasy rhyme,
Back creased in nights devil-dance Eyes bloodshot by noise
Beaten, I rise without thoughts

without poise,

Arrive at the opera
To cleanse my greasy soul Greeted by dreams of Chagall Then Toscas pain I absorb,

Across- central park invites with naked palms Into which like home I wonder
In bareness she waits for spring
Whilst I in her belly revolutions ponder,

The sky-scratching dreams Which by towers rise
But blink
these dreams demise, they die,

For the undercurrents
Who charge these streets
Were foreseen by wise-old Schopenhauer Opportunities in lightning come and go by the hour,

Take no chances
Rely on beastly will
That unleashes like thunder

from within till armed in magnetic force you bend towers of dreams and revolving doors of time

to lean to you
to hear your broken rhyme. 

 

 

Copyright Vladimir Fanshil © 2017