Poezja

Grey air. I will come to myself, igniting
the fire. When will be ground reality known?

Standing on the cusp of pain.
It was not a legitimised, valorused decision.

When you will leave the things as
they are. I tossed the new born thoughts.

Great walls were crumbling
unfolding the ugly ephemeral cults.

Who gnaws my poems? Don't search
my unuttered words for your maturation.