Poezja

Staples were traveling on the 
epiderm, thanking the wounds. 
The dust, the eternal ugliness 
were growling. 
 
Riveting drama: 
a royal swanking for a macabre 
heist. A bizarre charisma 
overtakes the cozy lips. 
 
I was green, 
and I was a cloud 
where the sunflowers meet 
beneath the sun. 
 
Blind poppies assert themselves 
unfurling a flag of milky sap. 
The wasps were going- 
to become stingless.