Poezja

Paper wasps tend―
to simulate. What
if death becomes a part
of our life?

I sent the message
over the hills and moon,
when you were gone.

Without pain, were
you ready for the ending
of life, when life was itself
dying daily?

The day lips crack,
little or nothing was left
to say the voiceless hymns.

Your truth, was beautiful.
Was it a real truth?