Poetry

The swamp was in
boil. It was raining
again on the open wounds.

The scissors will
play a dirty game. You
divide the river
in right and left.

Enough was the greed
when you follow the bun.
After the surgery, no blood
was left.

I will go.
You would sing in praise
of coolness of water.
It refuses to move.

Escaped the blast, the
sparks. You can sail
in bottomless boat.