29 lutego 2024
I Ask Nothing
When a poem writes
you, I smell the
crimsoned moon.
Were you a possessed
angel, printing
desire on my palms?
Smeared on forehead,
the ash had left
the scars of kissed end.
You turn me on,
for a smile, before the honey
traces the question mark on lips.
There was no miracle
to retrieve the third eye
from the hidden love.