Poetry

There was no need of a sharp knife 
in Calvaria. 
Night was fighting with the moon. 
 
From a concealed canvas 
I could find, galloping, 
black horses were gone. 
 
A duplicate key does not work 
now. The lock had been 
replaced on the door. 
 
Stairs were climbing on my 
stale body. The snowy peaks 
will not melt in sun. 
 
Disrobing the blue skin, 
under a blue sky for blue moon: 
unstoppable laughter.