Poezja

Nevermore you will talk 
of the forked tongue. 
The genie was out─ 
in the jungle of legs. 
 
Hunger was in plain sight. 
You were wary of the wild─ 
dogs hounding at your gate. 
An augury of some spilled blood? 
 
Lachrymal, the soot trickles 
down from the black eyes on─ 
the marbled breast of a lone 
survivor in the city of tombs. 
 
Exhume you must the naked 
truth? I will not ask the name 
of the ravisher, in this crowd 
of fast disappearing shoes.