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a poem by Peycho Kanev
Dark sensitivity
The time hangs down like a broken clock
over the city, without hands, missing numbers,
and the ghost of the city is hungry for the lonely
souls; hide yourself well, barricade your solitude;
the dark wind blows holes in the rotten structure
of time; the autumn is the season when we prepare
for hibernation. Our skeletons are our best interior,
with tiny bits of life, hanging there, throbbing --
the pump of the Earth is hidden in your heart,
so when the night falls, you just wind the clock
and dream of elephants.
over the city, without hands, missing numbers,
and the ghost of the city is hungry for the lonely
souls; hide yourself well, barricade your solitude;
the dark wind blows holes in the rotten structure
of time; the autumn is the season when we prepare
for hibernation. Our skeletons are our best interior,
with tiny bits of life, hanging there, throbbing --
the pump of the Earth is hidden in your heart,
so when the night falls, you just wind the clock
and dream of elephants.
© by Peycho Kanev
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #18 ~ November 2011