Poezja

You could feel it. 
The fear in that pristine howl 
writhing in throat. Something was 
wrong with the sunflowers. A genital 
cutting had brought the snowdusting 
on mutilated emotions. 
 
A premonition warns. We are shining 
on wrong side, under dictates of religion. 
The cult will take care of mouth. You 
will celebrate the breaking up of man. 
The bone between the lips. 
 
I am collecting the dirty threads of 
loyalty to stitch the amnesia. They were ready to 
applause the demise of moon. No more 
sheen on the trees, lake and hills. 
I am hauling up the skeletion of the republic.