Stroll Along The Kremlin Walls

Who were you to me?
A strange figure standing in the shadows,
A man I saw approaching through the window
With flowers in his hands.
It was a sunny day and the surprise was big,
When I saw your silhouette
Attached to your long feet,
March towards our house.
Of course, the flowers were not handpicked,
Nor were they destined for me.

You watched me from above,
As some kind of thin, transparent God
Standing in our doorway;
Yet that empty look in your eyes,
Gave away the lack of your humanity.
I'm sad for you old man,
For you lack the courage to confront
What you destroyed.
I'm sad for me old man,
For you never gave me answers.

You found yourself a church,
And lived as if religion mattered,
Being nothing but a fraud,
A savior to the humble -
To me, you were sadness.
Museum walks, no dolls, just intellect -
All your talks about respecting elders,
Were erased.

'I'm just a phone call away',
You said - but the line never worked.

So, I sat in that bar,

Inhaling smoke and glances
Of waiters and dejected singers -
While each one of them looked like you.

I walked for days in that communist park,

With birch trees, grey blocks and fountains,
Senile and crippled men all around -
While each one of them looked like you.

Were you the officer or perhaps,

The ice-cream vendor in his white suit?

Do not feel grand for escaping life:
You're no conqueror, you have no army,
You are alone and outnumbered - I am not.

Take a stroll along the Kremlin walls,

With a brick around your neck
And some unknown child's hand in yours.

Now, observe me from below
And know, that I remember -
Churches don't have telephone cables.

I have no illusions. You have no guts.

Poetry by FrancescaLuca
Read 752 times
Written on 2016-09-06 at 19:18

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This is a very sure-handed poem. The language attracts your readers, drawing them in. Well done.

Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
As a rule, I have no patience for poems which do not explain themselves. Yours does not. It's an enigma. Even so, I like it.