Poezja

Hurting yourself,
You won't say anything about
falling notches. It bruises, it
bleeds.

You will condole,
and like sundew, trap my poems
in backfoot.

Explicitly I will ask,
never stop crying.
Your neighbourly pain will descend.

Its lips become dirty,
when facial expression of moon
alters.

I want to change
my religion, drumming up
the nuances of refusal.

It wrongs you,
when an acceptance,
means never.