II. The porter on the mirror
March 14, 2025 at 5:31 AM
Notes:
ike any writer, I want to be a poem and not a poet at least once. That's why I allow myself an unforgivable stupidity - I dedicate poems to myself.
I am strings stretched to the limit,
Exorbitant, the highest note.
I’m like tearfully bare for forgiveness
Or uncontrollable desire to hurt.
I smell like black coffee with salt,
Not give up, but desire to try.
I shoot point-blank from revolver
in burgundy, well-established tie.
I am something about soft pink,
And adorable ballroom chic dresses.
I’m the pray to the saints on the knees
In a mournful, forgotten temple.
I’m the smell of classical books,
Loud laugh in response to reproaches.
I’m the scars of strict education,
I’m a passion to dedicate poems.
I’m like February snow in Siberia
Or the coldest pouring drench,
I’m in brilliance of the medals
And in difficulty of French.
I am golden gleams of the hair
And adorable August sunrises,
Inability for being happy
And the smell of eastern spices.