avatarRigópoula T Tsambounieris

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1012

Abstract

ver-ever-land —</p><p id="dbdd">a thousand years in a drop of malaise, a thousand years of benediction, your mythical tears unseen, count numbers in the golden tales of Chrysomalousa.</p><p id="02a7">Ahhh, but that the spout of my reverie, reverse the spell of misfortunes foolery, and drink of the poisoned tears of Lethe and to forget you — once upon a time — to quench my thirsting affectations in the fragility of a cloud — nine order of angels.</p><p id="cfc3">My Prince is gone, no Orpheutic lyra to dream, if only to dream the impossibility in the notes of I in you, the silence that writhes my bones, and curdles my blood, the silence of your body, on the night of the seventh moon. That waking blush of night you left, dressing my eyes in the mournful willowing weeds of mornings thereafter.</p><p id="f32a">Are these the dreams that sleep in the heart of the beast, that do not speak in the voice of definitive beauty — peace?</p><p id="edd5">Beauty sleeping awaits the arrival of a lost promise, a kis

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s that picks the daisies you gift me from the splendor of your dust, as the petals drift me to sleep on a twist of fate, a whisper of darkness, the obsequies of my memory, turn off the moon and the fairytale inherits my love in the pages of the taker of time — one stolen moment and the loser takes it all,</p><p id="fe2a">And I’m still took, taking, taken on the remnant of the enervating ashes of an epic that never had a hope of living its end — a happily ever after.</p><p id="7055">Fairytale endings took their revenge, closing the book on unwritten chapters, keeping the door ajar, as taradiddles dust the untitled cover, by the us that was once upon a midnight’s aspida .</p><p id="fb20">Once upon a time, a morphetic draught, to sleep us in memory and me in peace.</p><p id="86ca">Once upon a time there was, what is now in the pages left blank, evermore, forever endeavor.</p><p id="19cc">Copyright ©. <a href="">R Tsambounieri Talarantas</a>. October 23, 2019. All Rights Reserved.</p></article></body>

Photo by Liana Mikah on Unsplash

Fairytales

What is this thing my heart indulges?

I do not ask it, the truth my heart speaks does not align with the musical mentation’s of my minds orchestral genre

Pinocchio, waters the forbidden fruit, where it will bloom nobody nose. It plays between the clefts of skipping stones and jumping joy, in legendary fairytales and the arenas of lore, of razing magic mountains and sirenic sea songs

Oh my heart, is it legerdemaine you weave through the channels of persuasion, through the fertile mines — Solomon smelt the ore and wept a thousand and one nights in the wonder of your never-ever-land —

a thousand years in a drop of malaise, a thousand years of benediction, your mythical tears unseen, count numbers in the golden tales of Chrysomalousa.

Ahhh, but that the spout of my reverie, reverse the spell of misfortunes foolery, and drink of the poisoned tears of Lethe and to forget you — once upon a time — to quench my thirsting affectations in the fragility of a cloud — nine order of angels.

My Prince is gone, no Orpheutic lyra to dream, if only to dream the impossibility in the notes of I in you, the silence that writhes my bones, and curdles my blood, the silence of your body, on the night of the seventh moon. That waking blush of night you left, dressing my eyes in the mournful willowing weeds of mornings thereafter.

Are these the dreams that sleep in the heart of the beast, that do not speak in the voice of definitive beauty — peace?

Beauty sleeping awaits the arrival of a lost promise, a kiss that picks the daisies you gift me from the splendor of your dust, as the petals drift me to sleep on a twist of fate, a whisper of darkness, the obsequies of my memory, turn off the moon and the fairytale inherits my love in the pages of the taker of time — one stolen moment and the loser takes it all,

And I’m still took, taking, taken on the remnant of the enervating ashes of an epic that never had a hope of living its end — a happily ever after.

Fairytale endings took their revenge, closing the book on unwritten chapters, keeping the door ajar, as taradiddles dust the untitled cover, by the us that was once upon a midnight’s aspida .

Once upon a time, a morphetic draught, to sleep us in memory and me in peace.

Once upon a time there was, what is now in the pages left blank, evermore, forever endeavor.

Copyright ©. R Tsambounieri Talarantas. October 23, 2019. All Rights Reserved.

Poetic Prose
Poetry On Medium
Poems And Stories
Prose Poem
Mourning Poems
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