Poezja

A relative lie, 
becomes the truth. 
Will you meet me, on the 
cobbled street, where the gospels 
are cowering in terror; 
to find the style. 
 
Becoming; to be a void. As if 
I was not there. Unpetaled, 
the ovary will ask 
the bees to land immediately 
on open mouths. 
 
From the veiled moon, 
comes a stifled cry. 
Do not collect the peaches.