All the townspeople disappeared
except for a man with very rotten teeth.
Fetal positioned on his manifesto,
he can proofread in his sleep.
But today he is dreaming he is
away on a Roman holiday,
away from truly ordinary people.
He is with flag-draped coffins;
He is with forlorn hand,
laden with shrapnel.
But most importantly,
night-riding on his bicycle
without a light.
Well, you brought this image to life, Marina. Nice write! I like the title. 'Necromancy Whim'...a 'tad' grim, although good.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Marina, Read it once, scratched my head, Read it twice, meaning still fled, Read it thrice, crawled under bed, No need for fourth, glad I'm not dead! Ray