Poezja

Don't print on the body
a pattern, grayesh red.
Damask rose?
The cilia will propel you
into the tunnel.
 
Clowns have assembled
on the street, to write
the history of fall.
Acts of kindness are being
translated into profanities.
 
You are hurt by the
petals, thrown at you.
Kingmaker, why you have become
a joker?
 
Red lilies?
Do you like the buttercups?
Eyes ago, there was a bouquet.
I am not sure, why you were walking
on nails.