Poezja

After the spooky night 
there was the 
morphean balm. 
 
You pull out the meat 
from the bones. 
A genteel confession- 
 
keeps tumbling out. 
The haunted house 
sends forth the tiny ghosts. 
 
It was moon time. 
You will drop a torpedo- 
to unsettle the stray thoughts. 
 
The geometry 
falters. Lines are drawn 
to remove the dots. 
 
The skin you left 
on the road; 
still glows like a smoldering coal.