Poezja

I don't find words. 
Words will find me crying, 
when a drone hits the coral reef. 
 
Between guilty and 
innocent, the sleep will 
level the night and 
let go the dreams in sea. 
 
The school of fish dies 
in my story. The ship sails 
for a new port. I cleave 
a pattern of withdrawl. 
 
Roses will come again, to 
sign a pact with the unshaven 
god, sitting on the pavement, 
waiting to be beheaded.