Poetry

In evening I need
to speak with my small voice
to fill my dreams with moon.

Buried alive in the brick―
wall, a frightened poem
wails.

I will meet you, my muse―
in your space, without any pang,
though the road has not ended.

Drinking the dark
wordplay with no qualms
at the virtual rise of doom.

The fireflies, with their
breasts aglow, were ready to conceive
the radical ultimate.