Poetry

The póetique listening 
to the reason, as foggy 
as the past, untelling the 
future of midnight onslaughts. 
 
The rain of emptiness, was 
playing havoc with the 
fiery cross. No orchestrated 
withdrawl, I am― 
 
preparing myself for the 
supersonic cruise missiles of 
vendetta. Golden heart, 
you will carve out and eat. 
 
The bluebirds. They had left 
unannounced. This summer 
the snowy peaks will melt, 
for a lone tree.