Poezja

Grip loosening; 
the lesser evil─ 
 
will liberate you─ 
from the nights terror. 
 
The moon bleeds, 
in your bed. 
 
A raw wound─ 
unblinks in pain. 
 
No words will speak 
for the fallen icon. 
 
The death has extracted 
its price. 
 
Black milk exudes 
from the round breasts. 
 
Sun was rising.