Poezja

Like clones, your hands
embrace, winding up
the duty of fists―
in half-light.

Was your love
primordial? I would ask
myself, accepting the tears
from your red eyes.

I will borrow your
faults. Want to become
human. The defeat in
your hands was rewarding.

The rivals bloom,
without water of eyes.
O daisy, I was run over
by the stamping of clouds.

Give me the speed of light.