Poetry

The rose month is coming
I am not ready to receive the guest.
Mistletoe will takeover
With folded hands wind was blowing
No star accepted the gift
of burning earth.

He walked alone in the ruins
to search the time of rich.
His hunger did not find the bread.

He thought he was good as a bone
in the diet of sunset
on the snurfs of dew.

Innocent was the betrayal
under the sheets.
Pert was the sting.

Myth stumbles out from dead souls
I am walking behind the moon
your hand was on my shoulder.