Poezja

No words, 
no thoughts, 
remained unkissed, unwed 
by a shapeless white death. 
Still under the spell, 
I squatter before the moon, 
peeling off, to receive 
the ultimate. 
 
I am trying, 
to find the roots, 
of unknown. 
Breaking protocol, for a 
moron liability, unclouding 
the dark sky. It was homecoming 
of a Michelangelo to repeat 
the performance. 
 
I want to write 
a dirty poem