Poezja

The jungle was ageless.
Moon drops a hint.
Your poems go in flames.

In dark I had
weaved a dream. You were
worshiping a bystander.

The Ars Poetica took
a turn and became a
message for departing sun.

Republic of pain
signs up to cross the death
after meeting the talking trees.

Who will dance
to celebrate the history
of broken hearts?