Poezja

A gasping confession 
of a pubescent fault. 
 
Why did you enter the bed 
of a molten lava? 
 
Wisdom was in silent eyes 
not on the lips of a blackened rose. 
 
The water was white and cool 
the sun was red and hot. 
 
A mirror will never tell the truth. 
Bleached was the face of moon. 
 
One night I will be killed 
in the hands of a benevolent foe.