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Monuments of Love

My Lea
The grass that stretches for miles of endless green
dance in sync with a docile breeze,
on tempered brow filled with anger
providing a safe place to set anchor.
A certain peace comes to one who sees
in front of them all the opportunities
on which they could set on a fantastic journey,
even though it might first seem blurry.
As we dip into . . .
The Sea
I rush towards the top trying to breathe,
and stop at the sight of fire so far below.
Shining through darkness is a coral wreathe,
emanating the light begins to grow.
Two feathered lips in their caress bequeath
a gasp of breath, and the sun begins to shine.
My Mountain Peak
The bottom is so far away I cannot see it,
hidden by cloud cover and nothing other.
Space yields its eternity to me,
and I thank it for the journey.
I thank the courage I have been given,
and even more the mistakes for which
I have been forgiven. As I reach into the
depths of life, I grab onto your hand
and hold on tight.

Free From - Up from Hades

I recoil from that horrid sparkle
shining through the crowd.

On your breast, I glimpse the onyx pendant you were given as a gift,
resting between the inky strands of your hair;
your admirer (which one?) must have a fortune.

As you glide around the room, I begin to grasp your aim;
you wear these tokens of affections as a process of selection.
You forage for your (temporary?) king
with controlled behavior and learned wit,
calculated laughs to hide that you’re a misfit,
traveling the planet,
a drifter queen.

Hiding behind more prominent fellows,
averting myself from your knowing glare,
I find the footsteps you rode in on
and follow them out.
I urge myself not to turn back,
to the clash of champagne trays,
lipstick stains and sordid masks.

Free Form – The Wind Sighs in Tempests Tonight

The wind sighs in tempests tonight.
Leaves swirl ferociously.
Frost clings to every windowpane.
My fingerprints remain as I retreat
from its cold and glossy skin.

I sit here, at my withering desk,
and wonder what I’ve done with every grain of time.
I think of a dying species of which I’ve had no part of.
Where they read and wrote profusely, with mastery and obsession.
Where their words mattered, their lives mattered.
I find it hard to think they thought otherwise,
Although I’m told that they too were weak, and fragile.
I find it hard to think, maybe Kafka, the blessed soul.
May he find solace, may he know in the afterlife, that yes!
He is worth so much.

Some might say, see! See! He held the same insecurities as you
And wrote so much! And so well! And was loved!
Yes, wrote so much, and so well.
It is unnecessary to say much more about that.

No one can dredge the sorrow from my shivering heart,
and dispose of it in a lake of fire.
I must carry this incomparable weight forever,
figure creaking and malformed, bones grinding upon bone.
I have been overlooked by the cosmos,
as it chose to borne me in a time that is not my own.
In a time, where a species is dying, and I not with them.

Nothing compares:
101 keys, and the backspace is the harshest;
a lucidly enrapturing sentence, phrase, passage,
wrought of dark, hidden metals
interlaced with exotic thread
written on reams of gold,

upon a lonely island
where the salt of the sea foam
battering onto the limits of your shore,
brings you no solace, no reprieve
from nature’s savage beasts;
rising from the dregs and chasms
of darkness that no shine penetrates,
even if at its very core was
pure and brilliant light,
there would still be no escape;

for with every pen stroke are
a dozen scratches,
every word typed, double erased,
exposed for fraud, “another thousand lashes!”
where even in complete solitude,
you are victim of reproach,
and tear out scribbles,
wear out that dreadful key,
walk into the thrashing sea
and take your place
right next to me.

Toronto / March 2016

Dragos Balan    3/15/2016


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