Poetry

Sorcery comes handy
when you start
beheading the sunflowers.

The mountain goes bald,
qualifies for the
murder. I set a bronze-

lover on the pedestal to
arrest the muffled
voices, coming from silent cries.

The grace was missing
from the artifacts, you pluck
from the freezing lips.

Stones are falling.

Millions of words.

No meaning.