Poetry

Lips of clay tend to bleed 
my kisses. 
And the distant moon treads 
softly on the spent passion. 
 
A private crimson 
blunts the whiteness of moon. 
The birds- 
step out from the fog. 
 
Last moments - 
of the bell to announce 
the schizophrenic flesh 
sailing like snowflakes. 
 
A primordial fear - 
was destroying the profile of man. 
Here it goes- 
the spiritual enigma. 
 
A blast 
of stunned silence: 
I am collecting pebbles 
from the trees.