Poezja

In the culture of self, and wilting idol
who was going to interpret the truth? 
To resolve the inner conflicts 
of an ailing mind? 
I tell no one my validity, 
my loss, and my sudden realization, 
of a dying aura. 

Give me a poem, a childhood, a dream 
I wanted to live, 
without maligning a mirror. 
Without a cold-blooded 
murder of truths. 
Life was becoming a waiting in blackness for an 
audience with god. 

A thought sits whole life 
on a ruined model of a truth, 
trying to get freedom from the 
celebrated events of greed and hate. 
Windows are not supporting the light. 
Time for the greens 
to make a decision.