Poezja

Stammering quarrel
with classical fluidity,
fails to measure the uncertainty.
I was finding my rocks,
that chunk of certainty
in midstream,
when you were not sailing with me.

The wait,
stirs high the separated pain.
Boat capsizes on high sea,
churning the eyes.

Suspense was killing
behind the veil.
Half-belief
half-truth
sustained the spirit, kept
possibility at bay.