Poezja

Dried knuckles will
not fondle the small moons,
accelerating the downfall.

Pomes go red. A
savage invite staring,
to bite the hidden pride.

We never agreed
dividing the river of grief.
Pounding non-stop
like the gorilla.

An endless hole sucks
our sun. Planets have no
choice in the moment
of holocaust.

The birds and bees
fly for the land of brides.
There was no marriage of sins.

Goriness has no excuse
to find another moon.
That was a stranger.