Poezja

The words had started to fail me. 
There was always an ‘if'― 
before every war of hunger. 
 
The candlewick has burned 
out. I am collecting the― 
wax from the eyes. 
 
Wrapped agony, now lifts 
the dead bird from the 
rose bushes. 
 
The frosted god 
will melt to bare a 
black stone. 
 
I am not luck 
I am not the future. 
You know where this path leads into?