Poezja

Wind prowled. 
You had a hornet’s sting 
buried half in your hand. 
 
Anaphylactic shock. 
Translates into night of terror. 
You hesitate to smile. 
 
Midnight blues. 
You cannot count the stars. 
Pesky. Stories spread about moon’s pink thighs. 
 
An ode to the death’s kiss. 
You were sleeping in the 
sole embrace of pain. 
 
The denizen breaks the rule. 
Moves into the sea 
for courtship with depth.