Poetry by Dimitris P. Kraniotis

Noiseless wrinkles on our forehead the frontiers of history, shed oblique glances at Homer's verses. Illusions full of guilt redeem wounded whispers that became echoes in lighted caves

(In Honor Of The Dead Unpublished Poet) Well done! You have won! You should not feel sorry. Your unpublished poems -always remember- have not been buried, haven't bent

Smokes of cigarettes and mugs full of coffee, next to the fictitious line where the eddy of words leans against and nods, wounded, to my silence.

The savour of fruits still remains in my mouth, but the bitterness of words demolishes the clouds and wrings the snow counting the pebbles. But you never told me why you deceived me,