Poezja

Ash and smoke.
I am fever, not becoming
any sound.
 
Like a lichen, a mycorrhiza
on damp soil,
unfound by light.
 
Thriving in airless
dark. Will not see the cool―
moon of summer night.
 
There was no key
to find the invisible.
A random poem will see.
 
Your painted body
in blue scars, still
remembers the fallen roof.