Poezja

The dots, million times,
like fire ants.
A black mass, you want
to exterminate.
 
Give me a light year
to understand the gray sky.
 
After the blast
the mind spills.
 
Thoughts, endless thoughts.
 
How do you reach the rim―
of success, as an ing'enue,
drifting down, without raft
in the river?
 
Was it a winter sleep of a toad
to ward off the
hypothermia?