Poetry

Black emptiness. 
Death opens like a flower, 
somebody is walking in. 
 
You think of a soft punishment 
for becoming faithless. 
It was becoming a way of life. 
 
Unlimited agony of wait 
something to happen. 
Nothing is heard in the field. 
 
No shots. No kill. 
Your day was over. 
Night descends like a puzzle. 
 
Grey cornea on the white lens: 
clouds are playing a game, 
mist has a smoky smell. 
 
A city sleeps at last. 
A poem I will not read. 
It was my ancient address.