A Poet’s Shadow

Coming out from the wall’s core,
where there is no window,
you can hear knotted strings
playing a soft cantilena,
lulling to sleep all past phantoms
coming alive in the shade.

The poet’s eyes are freezing them,
carving everything in stone.

My heart has found a revolving door
towards the old attic
where the moon keeps turning around
like an old gramophone.
Always the same tune.

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Categories: My Poems in 2011 | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

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