Poezja

In deep depression,
clearing the emotional debris,
when your eyes speak―
I become dumb.

The skin mood alters.
Love was not racial.
A naked paper writes your will― that,
you no more belong to anyone.

Going down, down―
the man's ego. I stand on crossroads,
still undecided, your lips
white, eyes red.


The reapers will come again
to harvest the skulls, to
make necklaces. The greed wants
the biggest garland.

Stings are a plenty.