Poezja

The weight of charity
sits on my shoulder.
I call for healing
on my terms.

We will divide the
funeral rites for undead―
nourshing survivor's massive,
sin. My path to truth opens.

Chasing a butterfly for
redemption, stuns me.
You were born of your―
own seed.

The guilt ultimately
overtakes. You initiate
unloading the vowels. Words
start flying without wings.