Poezja

Thinking was seeing through the time, 
was a lone journey from naïve 
understanding. Return was difficult, 
back to bricks and forlorn shores. 
 
How many beginnings had failed; 
the doors locked, cobwebs, dust, smoke, 
crowded with dangling hopes. Flywheels 
broken. DNA twisted, life – in – heaps. 
 
The purpose, warts and all, salvation, 
as long as footnotes guided between 
restless nights. Melancholy of space in 
the bed. Silence of portraits. 
 
A peacock explodes, defining the boundary, 
then a chorus of approval. An owl hoots. 
The candle kisses the creases of dark. 
Moon swells.