WAITING FOR A SURREALIST
On a different street I stand with the same soul.
Bypasses roll over my head,
Leaving the solitude in the canvas.
The tyres roll to brush the bruises off,
Created when the road was constructed.
Edges with luminous jupiters in it,
Even after the sunset it keeps burning,
Birds chirping even when they sleep;
To make me feel that I am always open.
The black calligraphy everytime tries to illuminate it more;
Sometimes it felt the velocity of night,
Making it shrink in the pit hole.
But it yawned Everytime it woke,
And the yawning was the narration before the play;
Everytime the screen used to open,
The impulses used to jump from their couch,
Characters blew some mind off.
I became a murderer at that instant.
Everytime they made love,
All of them started the art of seduction
With their naked, beautiful brains.
I became a potion at that instant.
Everytime the characters suffered death
They tasted their real tears;
I became a sadist at that instant.
Everytime they saw a smirk in the negatives
They suffered anger with many ripples.
I became a corrupt at that very instant.
Everytime a comic erupted among the negatives
They suffered with an aching stomach.
I became a venom at that very instant.
Now that screen closes
With many negatives and positives in their hand,
They suffer a grief created by the end.
I became a magnet at that very instant.
Alteration stays inside me,
Making its journey on the back of the arms of the clock;
Moving from spiritual to materialistic
It always forgets the change after the conclusion.
It just waits for a single surreal person
To bring winter and darkness back
So that it can again invite autumn and light
And can again initiate the drama.
The Dryad (Jupiter Miniatura) -- Eric Larouen