Poezja

A moth love was evolving,
without a flame.
You are going to bang the wall.

It was too early
to sing aubade. Night was
still rolling on the leaves.

A tall tree failed,
to send the message of moon drop.
How will I read my palm now?

At funeral, a crowd
waits for the bride. The groom
jumped off the dam.

No music was left
between the lips. Angst
was palpable in stumps.