Poezja

In a chilly moment
a metaphysical shadow
descends.

I start studying in
granular detail, the substance―
cause and knowing.

The terrible. I become
an executioner; climb down
a tar pit to drown
the skulls of peers.

Everything goes in
circinate mode. A ball
of spines. You bleed,
you ache.

I want to go before
a firing squad, for not
remaining innocent.