Poezja

Not able to sing─ 
you have become the song. 
 
You will make me very poor 
by giving charity. 
 
It was a black dahlia, ready 
to beset the moon in lunar eclipse. 
 
And the word implant was not 
appropriate. It has become toxic. 
 
Downward you search the seeds 
in dark. The spirits waiting in wings. 
 
Death was the most beautiful thing 
to happen on the stage before- 
 
the play starts. I will invite 
my paramour to light the lamp.