Poezja

Something was always
missing. I wouldn't
recognize me.

In my quietism,
I dig out the words, that
would give me otherness.

The ocean accepts
the martyrs of woody frames.
Fuel was not sufficient
to burn them.

Moon sizzles in
black fumes. Pure cotton
was needed to make wicks.
There will be a night vigil.

Where the crowd assembles.
I will present the thoughts
of a wandering soul
of unknown prophet.