Lucio Giuliodori

The poet

The leaden sky is where the poet lives.
He thinks he’s walking, but he’s taken flight.
He doesn’t know. He only stares far off.
He never glances down,
where matter dwells,
distorted sculptures
that compose “the real.”
Faded counterfeits
of Platonic ideas.
Brown, dark, inhuman,
These copies gash the white plume
of the poet’s body.
His spectacles peer
at a world on display,
more real than reality.
Down below, statues,
planetary zombies,
endure a whirlpool of torment
too rashly called “life.”
But he’s simply flying.
And laughing. He laughs with his body, laughs with his soul.
He laughs in a dream that he’s also directing
From the height of his Power. Pure, antique, ancestral.
Infinitely imposing. Tall as a giant.
His scepter? A helm,
Magic wand,
Flying carpet.
Keep soaring.
Go on existing
above what is “real.”

L.G. "Surrealist Alchemy".