Poezja

Salt burnt, you come
under the shade
of milkworts.

Not fated, you still
wanted, unaided departure.

Reading the lifeline in your hand,
why did you opt
to kick the bucket?

You wanted to celebrate the luge with vodka?

How do you get in my shoes?
You become me?
The blue lake of your eyes was frozen
I will walk on ice to reach your home.