Poetry

The way back it worked 
the pretention, 
the parthenogenesis. 
 
Now we are lying 
without any affair, in self-deception. 
The belief has no walls. 
 
The truth inside and the truth outside – 
there is no placenta in between, 
foetus dies in the womb. 
 
Unpleading, immaculate, zen 
bleeds in chips. 
My god is lying dead. 
 
My butterflies have gone, 
perched on moon 
I am looking for stars.