Poezja

Sometimes words
are very cruel. You
cannot chew them.

For the spirit of―
dying moon, you
wear a death mask.

Sitting on a wind cheater, in
tower of pain, you
want to understand the breed
of conflicts, fuelling the duels.

Yes or no, you have
to come with me. Stones
will not shame you anymore.

The black spots―
of dream-dropped roses,
smell of family dust in the
eyes of white ghosts.

You fatten the flames.