Poezja

I am talking to me 
in a muffled tone. 
Unhinged, cutting myself. 
 
Murder was shaping. Cheating 
oneself. What was the arguement 
to concede the religion - 
 
of a no-god? The actuality 
of present time? Black magic 
was turning human beings into stones. 
 
Amid unrest someone claims 
the obscenity of truth. 
The torture becomes fearless. 
 
Paired needless stitch the unhealing 
wounds. I have left the home 
to find the black-hole.