Poezja

I felt you, through your
words. Tight and
crisp. But you remained untouchable.
 
For thousand of years
a lity of valley
cried, to get a dove's cooing voice.
 
The musk deer will not
leave its domain. Some
poems were hungery of its hideout.
 
An ordinary day of fall
starts the inferno. Syllable
by syllable in colors.
 
The dilemma of drinking
the hemlock at one go.
How would I describe the ascending paralysis?