Poetry

It was not ending, not beginning
this fracas,
to search the exit.
Where to go where to.
 
The window
has jumped out
from the moon. what was
your ultimate? What was?
 
The cold-blooded
creepy object
discharging the virulent
flames virulent.
 
Migratory ink
always lands on the
paper, would not
move the words would not.