Poezja

If the lineation wins,
I will not pardon myself
the dots on flesh will glare.
A dummy hurricane,
will envelop the ruinous body.
The death will stalk and the predators,
will have the field day.

My own truth cries for an,
idea of making a complete suicide
on table. Inside the guts
flows a column of skimmed fakes.
Directions break the geometry of sleeping faith.
It was not worth trying.

In mind between the dark and grey,
lies the pale of truth.
This perspective is a constant pain.
Where will the thoughts end
and the ripples begin?
Arguments have become
strange enemies in war of words.