Poezja

Turning me blue
blithe thoughts had come like snakes
wriggling, biting, leaving tooth marks.
I remained holding a dew drop
on the blade of grass.

Essence was untouched.
Night will change its dialect
after a casual death.

I contrive no more assemblage.
No condolence for the razed home.
The flames will leap again from words
to describe the inspiration, as the
sprouts break the earth.

When the logic ends
a kiss melts on the lips of fire.
The rainbow pierces the clouds
At the interface of sky.