Crowds
Lubomír Tomik
multitudes
cuckoo
alarm clocks
roosters crowing
millions of touches
whispering
tickling
millions of astronomical minutes across the ages
II.
past
dream
presence only
future,
shrouded in a cloud of seconds,
which are slowly eroding our lungs
out of the trenches
breathe of smell of the years
dreams are also intangible,
the blues of glittering fairy blouses
Midian Poet 