Interposted

Escaping the unknown 
becomes easier 
when you listen 
to the echos of dark. 


My god says, the peeled 
oranges will feed the 
starved moon, when you 
invite the rains. 

Invisible hills will send 
the bronze poems to you, 
once the black night starts 
drinking the green water. 

The nightmare looms large― 
climbs up my chest to 
lick the isles, throwing me in 
parenthesis, failing the commas.