12 october 2017
The Withering Blossoms
The guile demands
some apology,
from raw stings.
Flirting with illegibility:
Mercurially hot,
there was a preempt strike.
The monsoon comes late.
You would wait for the
wet encounter.
Not seedy one;
dragging a green wound.
Ending sine die.
The white salt
on the lips will speak-
the telltale marks, of crude assault.
Who will surrender
in the end, I will
find out, covering my eyes.
4 august 2025
wiesiek
4 august 2025
absynt
3 august 2025
wiesiek
3 august 2025
absynt
2 august 2025
Jaga
31 july 2025
absynt
31 july 2025
absynt
30 july 2025
absynt
28 july 2025
Jaga
28 july 2025
absynt