Poezja

It was spirit of the time. 
The lethal trade of─ 
missiles, someone was sending free. 
 
You collect the cachet 
of bleak weather. The 
roses were in bloom. 
 
Trying to conceive the 
buttercups in the blue─ 
frame of melancholia. 
 
I err, and find myself 
in sleep after the contact. 
A genetic gratitude overwhelms. 
 
You catch the stings 
blindly. The other sin will 
take care of itself in blood.