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  Table of contents Issue Eighteen A CHILD POET


And when the night hides its eyes..the moon waters the flowers
begging revolts change the nature of obscene death
endless tyranny wandering on the adventurous pathways of innocence
pathetic illusions erupt onto my blood heaped into a red wave.
But my second-born dreams do not want to warm destiny!!
meantime the discontent leaps the drunken fences of trenches where..happiness deceives itself!!
and the gears freeze when…the heart becomes sodden!!
uncontaminated dementias …torment me!!
and the nostrils of the corpse that I’ll become ..are already smelling …. the life that I’ll lose!!
the dilated pupils shell out icy glares at the catapults where the world launches itself…in conquest of other worlds!!
my degenerate inks intimate the sheet of paper to be quiet!!..lie down!!..shut up!!
it’s the time for premature verses to waggle indecently among the remains of the earth!!
it’s the time for crazy days to extend the scent of death which meanwhile adjusts its sights…
and every so often gets us!!
A little monster reshapes the disguised encampments that the air teases us with..
but destiny will always follow the desire of time which speaks to no one…
a moving train that sleeps….on a resting place in the air.
I’m a child poet so unconscious I don’t know …what I’m writing…
I’ll grow into a boy tossed against the scabs of the veins that will distil blood…when the verses appear..
with eyes closed I’ve seen what with eyes open …..I could never have imagined.
The descent to Hell is the price to pay for going up to Paradise
and so I’ll go to Hell!! ...and so I’ll go to Hell!!
God’s face is in the rays of sun that fall to earth without scraping their knee
and inside the cemetery the faces on the marble ask me why I don’t come to them…why..
when a man waits for nothing but death, all life can do…is let him go.
I’ll never read my poems..
the sunsets will never explain their drawings
the oceans will never don their waves
eternity….will never show…how it will play out.
I’ve cut out the shape of my nature in the irreverent disarray of a child poet who turns to eternity and says:
you’re too small for me…




Dorian Dylyer is a pseudonym: the author is Italian and writes fiction and poetry. From the young age of 6, Dorian Dyler began writing poetry. His poetry collection, Shooting Stars, is available at Amazon for only $1. He can be reached for feedback at doriandyler@yahoo.it .

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