Poezja

Hurting myself
in piecemeal to reach
your meanings.

Paradise lost―
for one day, when the makeup
goes in flames.

I will be in sea,
when the valley burns deep
and a Digambara
finds the truth.

The mob was arranged
in place. Wasps had very
thin waists, but stings
were sharp.

The smile was
venomous. You will not
live to see the slaughter.