Poetry

Pain unites the victims.
Discreetly, afterword, was the same.
Only loser helped you to die instantly
for the millions of stars.

The shadow was a terrorist
on the terrace.
Wounds were flying on erected dais,
the circle of glory was complete.

Over the dead nurseries
sun was kneading the earth,
for a graying sky
to bear the night.

A shameful retreat
of the weaver, of faked skin,
when body was stained with orange bruises
inviting the moon.