Poezja

Set to break;
something was left
incomplete.

Time's portal
lets go yesteryear, and
I ask myself, if the
moons were mine.

The jack screw
had turned the course
of life. Why did you
go for the wax model?

The chilly thing was―
everybody sings a question.
The vendor of pain
will not give the answer.

Anger edicts
to destroy all the moons.