Poezja

Be tender, with me― 
in midstream. 
I will not arrive. 
 
Perversity was not 
my virtue. I am still 
burning on coals. 
 
It was a disappearing act. 
I become a brown rose 
in your eyes. 
 
The impacted glitch. 
I was not deft 
at the art of weaving a ritual. 
 
I carry the dried skull, 
of my unknown ancestor, 
who would not come back to home.