Poezja

                the flawless wrinkles
           settle gently now.
                  Creases of water
force themselves 
                    upon the murky
          minds of infants.
    The exteriors delve
                    into sinuous stains
                           of plasma, scattering 
             e  v  e  r  y  w  h  e  r e 
to take 
    over the clear veracity. Gasps of air
                interrupt the silence; 
                whispers of death. 
     Limbs
stop jolting. 
               
Scarlet sins flood her 
                eyes. 
The wrinkles do 
                not return. 
A spurt of 
                tranquility. 
The mother
                stares at her 
creation with
                such joyous 
approval.