I dream of Ivory skin
of leaving the dust
behind
behind the sofa
on which the Industry lies.
I’ll dream forever
of an idyllic picture
painted by a past
self
in the shadow
of a communist building
where words become less
than a once-heard poem
and the stars
convert to outworn lace,
but the frame
scares me,
scars me,
throws me
back into the Business.
I resign.
sell my picture?
reach the shore?
I dive deep into wealth
as I let go
of a never known persona
persona of mine
if they keep pulling them away
what will remain?
the same old pieces
she left me
I could do nothing with.
my eyes are now closed
not to sleep
but since I fear
being colourblind,
and I need
steady bones
which these hands
are too shivery to sew.
no longer do I feel
the design,
my unrested
mustard cheeks
feel a blinding thrive
of young futurists
of a never has been past
way below the magma
of the Nuclear Plant
in a world of
darkness
never to see light
but blooming as can be
on a field
of no disguise,
without Silver Lining.
Török-Schuller Lilla X. R
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