Poezja

You were half-crazy 
saving little buds 
brutalized by storm 
in a yawning night. 
 
The ugly silver of a fringe 
group becomes intentionally 
a hate cult, developing 
an epicenter for stripping 
 
to devastate a religion. The 
ghosts are walking in the 
corridors of mirrored crimes. 
There is a creeping sadness in the golden lock. 
 
The blood craft brings obscene 
inheritance. You hide the script of 
murder in a wheel chair. Things have 
not remained things. There is smoke all around.