Poezja

The sun beats mercilessly. 
A coastline invites the violence 
of the great lake. 
 
A sinking feeling of a boat. The battle 
of tides and limbs. You can see 
the colors, the dragons 
flying. The blasted sky 
and blackened clouds. A shriek 
sets the lake on fire, as the dusk sets in. 
 
A tribal instinct to burn 
the fences, set the horizons 
free for a new comet, landing from 
unknown space. You want to touch 
the lips of a mute, blotted moon. 
 
Fireflies start dotting the night. 
You move inward; find a dark 
niche to graze the wounds. The hurt 
brings the words. You pick up an 
axe and start chopping 
the dead wood.