Phony Letter

If -

I write to you

my happiness or my melancholy

Or-

Those children

who were never born out of me

You will fall sick,

infuriatingly sick!

Have a walk through your Amnesia lane-

you will feel my kisses, on your soul.

In my Somnambulism

I meet those cumbersome, dead poems.

Those, that are bespattered with blood.

Those swarthy indivisuals

scare me

But-

I love water and dreams

and the roses you gave me.

The usurption is painful.

I was to fly

And-

They have kept me burried.