Poezja

I had not asked for
all of you,
walking your path
above the clouds.

Do you think, it was
end of beginning?
The republic of sagebrushes has
nothing to say. Incense stops drifting
in desert of crumbs.

You start talking
to your esteem self for the rigged factuality.

I don't want back,
your virginity of first tears.
Underneath lies the stunned poetry
of the bruises.

There were ruthless secrets
inside your lids.
I will not wait for the moon
to go red.

The swastika wants to justify
the chimneys?