Poezja

First encounter was skimpy 
unleashing a terror 
of tales. I will not find the 
perfect body of a poem. 
 
 
Remember, 
the salt lake, where you were 
drowned one day in the eyes 
of the needle. 
 
It was an ode for the failed 
prophecy which predicted 
the fall of an author 
in the ravines of jealousy. 
 
A trampled butterfly exudes 
the yellow fumes. Meanwhile 
you can draw a nude on 
the road for bystanders.