Poezja

The hurt of a game. 
Myth has played with the─ 
life of a song bird. 
 
A dream becomes opaque. 
You cannot find any─ 
image of blood. 
 
A window shuts─ 
the moon. The rainbow will 
grope for a sky. 
 
And I must find 
some excuse to live. The nascent 
hope outleaps the black─ 
 
rain falling on eyes. Panic 
grips poppies. They throw up the 
color, the fresh dawn.