Poezja

When you try to find fire
in edifice of whispers,
you are badly singed,
the wronged truths demand scrutiny.
Fabulous smoke settles
on false statements.
The tunneled thoughts sway.

Epithets rise and plunge
in clefts of chastity,
remedying for sorrow and grief,
for death and pain.
Between us what has been left of truth?
Life had been a travelogue of designs,
inwardly we all are burned out.

I am frightened.
The probing must be painful,
conclusions will finally
dissect the superlatives.
Gloved hands will become visible,
which killed the innocent sparrows
in the galaxy of fame.