Mauro Montacchiesi

AS OF VAN GOGH A DELIRIUM

Almost an obstacle course,

so, the days chase each other.

The golden dawns aglow and silvered,

the sunsets etched in bronze,

deep within,

carve the face.

Sunsets that minutely crumble

the most intimately reposed arcana,

that pulsate,

like hearts gone mad,

in the most profound inner of the soul,

weary,

yet eager to live.

The sunrises and sunsets

embroider around the eyes

the future,

that will feed on these seconds,

just scanned.

Seconds, now seemingly cynical,

tomorrow who knows,

sublime,

poignant,

suavely nostalgic.

Hatred and love,

joy and sorrow,

eternal,

incomprehensible,

inextricable Manichaeism.

But I am human,

thankfully,

frailly human.

Suddenly,

perhaps unconsciously,

the mind glides silently

on our,

of youth,

now old photo collage.

And furthermore,

on the images that a thousand times,

a thousand and a thousand times I will have,

with a tender for your love,

tasted.

And there,

in those instants,

in that flashback,

it is how I feel.

I think of a shabby pendulum,

then wobbling,

now still.

And I can't help but wonder,

how many more days are ahead of me?

In my mind,

on the palette of memories,

as of Van Gogh a delirium,

your eyes,

your sparkling enamored pupils,

seem an immortal spell,

a universe where fantasies swing

about what is no longer there.

I feel like a drunken tightrope walker

who defies the odds.

Your lips glisten

on the sharp stalactites of life,

and it feels like a miracle,

a soft rose

that opens in December.

It looks like an oliphant

among the mountains,

the icy breath of Eventide,

and meanwhile,

a yearning of yesteryear,

makes its way into the heart.

A whisper of pain is gypsy

among the dusky wails

of an incipient starry night.

I have gypsy blood,

and I cannot stay still here.

I try to escape

from a hostile fate

that clouds the memories.

It is the middle of winter,

the north wind,

icy,

tears and drags away

the last yellowing leaves,

parched,

and with them,

the residual sap of existence.

The soul silently flows

into the calm lake

of memories.

Melancholy resurfaces,

as the gray torment marches on,

fibrillating the heart,

as once used to do the touch of your hand.

It hovers impalpably,

Dionysian psychedelia.

But perhaps it is a pure illusion.

Pure breath of life.

I let myself go on the wings

of a contradictory chimera,

tranquil,

that yet eclipses among the dark-blue streaks

of indigo-dyed hours.

Despite everything,

still a gasp,

a spasm in the heart,

while with joined hands,

with ancient,

adamantine faith,

I invoke the Forces of Heaven.

 

 

 

 

 

 

All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Mauro Montacchiesi.
Published on e-Stories.org on 05/04/2015.

 
 

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