Poetry

Need mercy for a 
Freudian slip. 
I was sitting on a window. 
 
The light went out 
from the eyes of the masterpiece. 
Only stones were left. 
 
Give me the figurine. 
I wanted to cut open the navel 
and find out the blue god. 
 
Will you pull the chariot 
of moon? The black horses 
will not send the blessings. 
 
The dawn was still hiding 
in a bunker. First you feed 
a child and then kill the rising sun.