Poetry

Anointed truth
had no path. Path
was the truth.

Not a play of
emotions. I am talking
about the transparent
leaves pressed in the books
of fake religions.

When there were
fireflies, you deleted the rains
and sapwood saved
the lip's blues.

You rolled around
the burning pyre. Flames were
embracing the dark lies,
about the brailled poems.

Perfectly in harmony,
Bach was being played by
a blind artist. Did you know it?

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