27 february 2022
Where Will It End
In deep depression,
clearing the emotional debris,
when your eyes speak―
I become dumb.
The skin mood alters.
Love was not racial.
A naked paper writes your will― that,
you no more belong to anyone.
Going down, down―
the man's ego. I stand on crossroads,
still undecided, your lips
white, eyes red.
The reapers will come again
to harvest the skulls, to
make necklaces. The greed wants
the biggest garland.
Stings are a plenty.
18 september 2025
wiesiek
17 september 2025
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16 september 2025
wiesiek
16 september 2025
absynt
16 september 2025
absynt
15 september 2025
wiesiek
14 september 2025
wiesiek
13 september 2025
wiesiek
12 september 2025
wiesiek
9 september 2025
absynt