Treasure Island

Maria Barbara Korynt


transformations


Dread was perceptible
unshaven with irony of the dullness
of the last razor blade.
On his chin the grown cactus
is breeding its small spikes
growing by oneself,
as twinges of conscience of the botcher,
folding elements
of the unsuccessful project.
A roof collapsed,
pressing down on edges of house
full of Utopian dreams.
It is a costly mistake
of leaving to world.

The head flew away already from clouds
on the ridge of the bony Pegasus
doing doggedly with wings.

Rest still will turn to dust
when a time will come...

Submitted: Friday, February 27, 2009

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  • Dagmara Anna (3/1/2009 12:56:00 PM)

    More avant-garde poem. Good metaphors and the play on words. Very much I like him. It is worthwhile reading. (Report) Reply

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