That’s a blackout.
Nothing else and nothing more,
Like a desert with no shores.
The tortured sailboat floats astray
Through the highest sandy waves.
Drop, drop. Art decade –
Sun has burned on silver sails.
Be wise, take the rhyme
From the cat-like sweetest times.
I take a drive with my black car
Across the downtown. Uptown too.
I break out of any limits,
I feel – gas runs all way through.
That’s a night without an ending,
The painted creatures fly above,
Some freedom needs for resurrection,
As sins were washed away by moon.
Knock, knock on the door,
Kiss the girl with muse-like form,
Write down first-born words,
Right decisions – no more walls.
Октябрь 2015, Вильнюс/Брно
The revival of the muses
© Copyright: Томас Макарскас, 2015
Свидетельство о публикации №115100902851
Свидетельство о публикации №115100902851
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