Poezja

Less molecular
affinity exists in the breaths
of time gone by.

I will squeeze
my lips stitching the
borders of pain.

Brown salt was
taking the color of hails.
Knives were red.

You know the truth.
Religion covers the half-
burned candles.

Draped in shroud,
the untouched womb
picks up the priest.

Even the stars
go dim like orphans
of sky, searching god.