Poezja

Deep lies the truth, unfathomed,
you cannot touch it.
Crossing the faceless matrix,
do not reach the level,
reasoning flattens the spikes.
On sand, elixir falls
like drops from awakening.
Arising from sorrow,
mustiness fills your eyes.

This was truth or untruth,
two strokes of madness,
wedged between night and sun.
Silence becomes an eloquent speech.
Each day brings silly
statements wearing artful masks.
Commentary on a vision fails.

Right versus wrong.
The conents of conflict always
linked the fear with poverty of a Being.
The involuted self uncurls
a scheme of war with a big world.
Now the smiles catch
a butterfly to immitate the colors.