Poezja

Standing in the centre of a circle,
trying to reach the periphery.
Was it a mistake―
to exhume the entombed
injury?

The bloody withdrawl
takes you back to brown
earth from the red sea.
How would you receive,
that you don't receive?

Your eyeslids flutter.
Sun will ask you for
shutting the eyes. The
glass breaks in your
globes.

Fibrosis cracks. You are
moving faster now in black rain.