Poezja

When the moon
dips in lake in snowfall,
I let you forget me.

I am reverting
to count the beads in
memory of unborn kisses.

Rock prison of
roses, you don't want to
leave the enticing smell.

The grit, the mettle
was gone. Poem hunter goes
back to barn.

A new god may
take a rebirth to bury angst
from lust to dust.