Morning
Moon
Grey wind
Howls

Sophistication of
Alaska snow even
Buries those holding
Bouquet of rose

The sudden ennui
Kills the burning fire
When partly sunny turns
Mostly cloudy
When the universal hue remains
Silent with a smile
Whose sly portrait
Flashes once in a while

Yet this book of a surrealist
I hold close to my chest
Secures me whose oblivious minds
Attempts to retreat to the west
and the feeble flame of
The spark of a pen
Ignites my depressing hay