Poetry

Moon was mixing the colors.
The black hole does not exist.
I was hearing about the quantum,
something was amiss.
 
Purple grapes had turned black.
 
I am trying to understand
the damages. A discreet thought hole
permits the escape of energy.
 
Imagination was at risk.
Can you hold on to life,
without a shock?
 
Somewhere you go back
to a concentration camp to collect the ashes.