the moon is blue
an opened mouth of darkness
its risibility is lost
while running through the days
an eye-fax’s lately sent
to recollections’ office
where lords of rigmaroles
are holders of the past
gatekeepers to the future
and sloppy sins collectors
my silent victories
my buggy vectors
who will transmit
and paperlessly will spread
on peppy screens
the confidence to love
and harmony of words
in countless tinges
to sound wheezy
with a wind
to rhyme with easy
every tint
of painted by the tips of digits
the harvesting of moonlit blues

8 February 2009