Poezja

It was a summer night. 
A windswept moonbeam 
plummeted. Sexualizing 
 
an indigo flesh. A butcher 
was seducing 
a spider, in company of 
 
a holy book. Sunbathing in 
mass grave of skulls. The eyes 
peeking out of the caps. 
 
You want to pluck the blue 
berries from 
volcano mounts. The key player 
 
will burn your script. Body 
of milk died on snow. The 
moth was coming out of cocoon.