Burnout Scar
Burnout Scar
Now the days are whole,
now the grumpy mirrors are sore.
Still you fly,
still the best parts of you are willing to die.
Stone-born crickets are talking,
how everything is fine,
how stars are alone,
their vain teeth are winking blind
under the gaze of the final fight,
under the surveillance of the loving night.
Somehow it feels
all roses are black and white;
they are born blind,
one of a kind,
but still they bleed
without inner sight.
They whisper
into the crude antechamber
that lurks
deep,
deep
into the open might.
Born blue,
painted like a stung screw,
awakened
as something bizarrely true.
Now the days are firmly whole,
now the grumpy mirrors are laughably sore.
Still you fly,
and you don’t even
like to give it
one more cursed, accusing try,
like every borrowed moment
is your sacred alibi.
Stone-born crickets are talking
how everything is still fine,
how stars are alone,
their white teeth
are not nocturnally blind.
Under the gaze
of a blood-bathed fight,
under the surveillance
of almighty silver night.
Somehow it feels
all roses,
black and white,
are born
unconditionally blind,
one of a kind,
but...
still they bloom
without
the eagerness
of the clearest sight.
Now the days are burnout whole,
now the grumpy mirror
lies low,
deaf
and sore.
Finally,
I am left
with my blazing sword alone.
At last,
my will
cannot be undone.
One more travelling lover’s dance,
one more star-gazed poem
for you,
like eons before.
They call me.
They try to see
into my vagabond core.
Nothing is,
nothing aches
like old forgetful promises,
like the sunniest days
stolen
from times before.
My one perfect wish
has become
a flaming star.
Now I am aiming
selflessly.
Every torn room
feels like
a forgotten curtain
in the most haunted bar.
I am benevolent,
but my aroused fate
loves
like a brutal shining tsar.
Her love…
my unwithered testimonial scar.
I toss
her wounded heart,
lately,
far,
far...
far too far.
Her blissful memory
is my most cherished scar.
Some doves
are just
too special,
too bright,
and too wickedly smart
to be broken apart
by devils like me.
Some doves
are just born
with your painless start.
Some doves
are just born
a few bridges too far.
What to do
when the best memory
turns into
a violent scar?
What to do
when your love is naked,
but worlds apart?
The devil is smart.
The curtain is far.
But still you fly.
With you,
days just won’t die.
With you,
a smile
is the first happy cry.
Let me live.
Let me be
fine.
Let me be
that faultless scar,
one memory too close,
river smiling,
a few bridges too far.
Let me be
that crucified,
brimming
jar.
Let me be
that shining star,
never too close,
close...
never,
never,
never...
bleeding too far.
Love
our mighty love
is a gateway
into a burnout scar.
How did all honest tears
just fall...
so many lakes,
so many bridges,
so unlovingly far?
How did we kiss this hallowed fire, this beloved scar...
How did we borrow the dying soul
that roams inside this restless bar?
Why did all the bridges crumble
without the starlight
of our most promising bazaar?
How did we kiss this
hallowed fire,
this beloved scar...
Why do all hermetic bridges fade,
leaving only a few lived memories,
a few bluest wings tossed too far?
Is this life just a heart
made of stone,
burned without jealousy,
entirely raw?
