26 december 2014
ARCHIVES
Fear of a mound,
tumbling down
on the half-buried, half dead
archives of desires, comes
like a stampede of hoops on my chest.
I lie alone in a desert of insanity.
From the sea of agony
one dropp of salted tear,
the title of a wasted life, brings
the blood stained truth.
I want to wash my eyes again.
To watch the autumn leaves falling
on impeccable stones
for forgiveness.
We were not the fruits.
A song of blind water
enters the earth
to kiss the roots,
foo giving liberation from
sun leaked night.
19 june 2025
wiesiek
18 june 2025
wiesiek
18 june 2025
Jaga
16 june 2025
wiesiek
16 june 2025
ajw
14 june 2025
wiesiek
14 june 2025
ajw
12 june 2025
wiesiek
12 june 2025
Jaga
11 june 2025
wiesiek