8
Hello, incoherent autumn,
Strikes at the memory like a pendulum.
I'm searching for you - eight,
Illuminating the outskirts with hundreds of novels.
A dreamy artist,
So hard to write without wine.
The muse as an image...
Endless black canvas,
Imaginary panic...
Caught me.
Reducing with lines of melting,
- I'm never for anyone,
And no one is for me.
A moment of silence...
You're like desperation - so fiery.
Like a stalker on the heels,
The heart like a monument,
A dense monolith up to the shoulders.
With the colors of a red lantern - you're mournful.
You're on the road too - also alone.
In Khrushchev's swamps - covered with gray blankets - sorrow blankets.
And in this unrestrained search,
At the borders of the same story,
Maybe we'll meet with our eyes,
And the thaw will come.
About this poem
I wrote this poem when, after a long time without communicating with anyone, I had the opportunity to spend time in the company of a girl much younger than me. 22>17
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Submitted by klak_s on September 30, 2023
- 51 sec read
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Quick analysis:
Scheme | AABCDEFGHIJKILIMNOPQRSITA |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 785 |
Words | 164 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 25 |
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"8" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 11 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/169876/8>.
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