Poezja

Profiling the flaws 
after the ignition, starts 
the outrage. 
 
A stoic will assume a 
secret. The mute testimony 
against my naked walls. 
 
Your gifts are lying unseen, 
unused. I have gone, O tormentor― 
beyond your reach. 
 
When you would try 
to annihilate the vision, I will 
check the bleed of eyes. 
 
If the bell rings; 
somebody will arrange the table 
for anaesthesia.