Poezja

Writing, 
a blood code. 
Manipulating the taint. 
 
Path, 
towards the violence, 
had the tribal instinct. 
 
Scent, 
of testosterone, 
was the key thread. 
 
You, 
will not know, what 
I conceive of the coming onslaught. 
 
Constellation, 
was ready to strike. 
I am not myself today. 
 
O, life, we will never know each other.