Poezja

How much you were honest 
with you? 
The poems had singed 
the eyebrows. I am filled 
with salt. 
 
Would you know what was 
missing between the lines? 
Afterlife will not bother me. 
My image and me 
will not superimpose. 
 
An apology for extradition 
of my agony. Trapped, my 
mirror has broken. I 
will tear off the moon 
from the window, when the room 
is dark.