Poezja

Sleep me, conceive me like sphagnum; 
propel me to essence of death. 
Seeing has put me behind the truth, 
objectively. 
Like centipede, fear crawls in deep blind cave 
throwing the feelers. 
The gene has faltered. No red lights. 
A paw, a blackboard, white lines 
message is not clear. 
My absent candles are freaking in wormy 
darkness, noiselessly. The solitude 
trying to gather the words. 
Listen to time clock. Past and future. 
Present has held the lantern to see 
the hands moving. Sound comes out 
clearly from the prophets of galaxies. 
I want to catch the winds 
in my legs to blast the horror of life, 
underside of the gnarled credibility. 
The rains are coming.