Sunday Morn’

She leans back in the easy chair

Commenting on the clouds

Where jet lines appear and

Disappear behind the clouds

Pulled-up on a giant stage.

While he listens to his inner

Voice

Stirred by the murmurs of

Passing crowds below

She’ll detects the play of light

And shadow on the profiled

19th century facades –

For him the play of smile and

Tears

On the faded face of his Muse

He still seeks

Having lost her fourteen years

Back

When love and art was sweet

In his heart.

His inner projection in a

Distorted reflection

In the windows of the building

She admires next door.

You don’t live with me she says

Destroying his thoughts he

Lives by

But then it only stirs bad blood

He has to swallow

And will drown-in for the sake

Of domestic peace.

For peace’s sake

Even here in Red Tower’s

Heart of Vienna.

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’18.

 

 

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