Poezja

Standing on deathway, 
choking back tears, 
for a stance. 
 
There were few minutes left, 
when you took the cover 
under pervasive falcon. 
 
Was it not a 
molestation of a baby moon, 
when you wash your sin in dimlight. 
 
Amazing was the 
religion of short legs. 
An ailing mother was waiting at door. 
 
You strike a chord 
(while I don't stir) 
before anointing the dark. 
 
The battle of penultimates, 
after a hill down 
shackled to river.