Poezja

Becoming blind 
in lightless depth; 
between the faults 
we meet. 
 
Moving the wheels. 
I was the sound; - 
spreading across the 
unspoken epiphany. 
 
Flirting with inevitable 
doom, you crash on 
the poems of – 
raging green. 
 
A tongue wants a 
novelty of death, 
in the arms of 
the frozen light.