Poezja

It laps up the solitude. 
A flame hits the stonewall 
of silence. 
 
A dust cloud, covers 
the finale of conflict. 
Nobody wins the race. 
 
You arrogate to yourself 
the skill to accept the heat of argument. 
Can you reach the end of thought? 
 
Ravishing black 
picks up the fallen moon. 
Somebody will go green. 
 
If I could walk on 
the lake? The faithless will 
wreck the pledge.