Poetry

Do not open this dirt file of 
the suspended time. It reverberates 
in me while standing 
on the edge of a precipice. 
 
Are you hungry of a desert 
light in dark. The birds are 
going to follow the sun carrying 
the moon on their wings. 
 
A dream creater stands on 
a golden rock to retrieve 
the archaic relic of a Desinovan 
who hit the grave without shoes. 
 
The greed ultimately takes over 
the silent death.