Gothic Window

In the depths of moving night
all troubles are perfectly tucked away

don’t ask, don’t bother what people,
what strangers’ absurdity has to say

don’t imagine when next swamp

will in anonymity lay

secrets are hidden like bearded plague
and they have nothing to play

moon is the glorious, laboring ray,

ships hidden behind the basin of love
are the entrance into ageless pay

remote are the ways of accidental man

heavy is golden moonlight,
brother sun walks on his

distant and cryptically paved hand

green is the emboldened vision

where all perplexed demons are rusty angels
sweet as marveling sin

somewhere in time even our story has to begin

brain is the occurring twin,
said words are shy, abrasively slim

conscience is the piping silver stream
devoted restlessly to goldenly alarming,
always waking dream

hungrily born reach without amorphous pause
is madly grim

echo raises in phantomously impulsively

driven messaging silence

harvest is the epitaph served to juicy notes
of unconscious violence

we all haunt the falling shrouded frog

we all chase the disturbing sun
of the insightful dog

in castle without mirrors
silent is the faraway bog

maybe I am curiously blind

maybe reality is diving nature
of the biting smog

standing kingdom for uncanny side
of shrouded nod

small hours for the frantically

dining, sparkful clock

repulsion is wooden sign endowed
to gothic window

madness is ecstatic decay,
a column of fiery mountain

beating drums in gliding, archaic limbo

there fruitless frog is the northern beating dingo

and spear of life is the satanic melted symbol

when clocks are diligently late

when all disturbed locks

are wildly cooking
with barren hate

there you will know

it already was,
way, way… way
too late.

there is plowed glamour
that can be only found

in

meaningful hate

but sometimes this icy knight

comes in your home

unexpected, without

murmuring date

best dawn turns thievishly into thousand
shadows filled with odorless cage

mind wants, but is hard to turn the living slate

when all senses beg for jaded ruin,

when widened cloaks are tirelessly barking
for blasphemous effigy
and fresh, immortal tears of called mage

life is the prophetic, crowned vanishing wage

meaning is the incarnated, lofty and ivory page

change is always humming like living grave

like first primal
dying breath

that is wastefully
strange.