Poezja

Lamenting, what not to―
think. Condemned to burn
the words daily.
 
The dwindling values tear open
the sit-ins of faith. I was
not ready to become a stone.
 
A busy vessel sends daily, the
blood to remote memories.
I look askance at the falling peaks.
 
A dog star following the
heels of master with blinders. No
straight vision. Time was the
mystery of the clock.
 
The moon is nowhere
in sight. I was starving
for a cardinal pain.