Humming elegiac nocturne
he strode through life poisoned with lies
and he picked flowers, which have never been offered to
Then he kissed their petals calling them dreams, admiring their diversity.
He always liked the wilted ones, the ones he
often found on graves.
He felt, they had more beauty then the fresh ones,
untouched by the claw of passing time
the real forms of
excellence - he felt, that the other ones have something more to say...
When he took a flower to his hand
all seemed strangely
concentrated, scared us by eerie expectation of Something...
This Something was everywhere, in each element of his distorter world, in
It observed us from each precipice of mind,
it shone with a glitter of malicious stars
suspended on the verge of
reality and imagination.
Each of these flowers randez-vous was his love
and each of his loves was something entirely
something elusive - as he said.
Because you cannot touch Beauty without understanding it, without being convinced that it is
The years elapsed...
And he still kissed these flowers sneering at life,
which he deprived of charm...
he stole all the colours...
And even the sun stopped shining,
as there was nobody to shine for...
Then he cried... putting his
head between his knees.
And his tear crossed the sky...
and bore unfaith.
Today nobody remembers him,
today they are the
Humming this mournful nocturne striding through life poisoned with lies and pick his flowers...
It is a sacrifice for
culmination of life...
The memories watered with divine tears.
Now, may I leave ?!