Poetry

The sleep was disturbed.
A book reads me.
The thinker will not rest in the arms
of Morpheus.

There is no road. You will
walk in the kitchen for the last supper.

A scream in the throat
dies. I have no soul. The night
looms large. I will not surrender
my pen.

Unquenchable thirst
was me. My head in a spin,
I go beyond the words,
to find the clapping hands.