Poezja

Something― you wanted to
say, which you would not.
Planet breaks― disheveled, weeping
being― unbeing.

Sometimes you play a game
of trembling legs―
waiting to run away
from your anguished inside.

The last hour of night
blinks. A baby sun about
to be born, and you find yourself
unprepared.

The black letters, on yellow
pages, under the streetlight
dance. A fat dream burns.
A book bleeds.