Poezja

Without audible conflict 
I invoke your face 
from withered names. 
 
It was always a big NO, 
when I would seek comfort 
in high sounding verdicts. 
 
An unspoken, painful, 
agony to script for an 
unwritten foe. 
 
The muscle will twitch 
involuntarily, to taste 
one’s own ink. 
 
In the waning moon 
I will come at your door 
to ask for a poem.