Poezja

Moving between the spaces, 
you fell short of a small― 
sky and you give up the grid, 
your secrets. 
 
A sense is lost of direction, 
and place. The opaque mind 
will not tell even once, where 
you are. 
 
Wrestling with your conscience, 
and demons, underside of 
the palette, you become ready for 
a self-potrait. 
 
A drinking spree of moon 
after a cease; where were you 
going. I ask? Shell-shocked, you 
pretend, what you have been.