Poezja

Hauled up 
the breast suture. 
You were following the milk route, 
 
epitomizing the fall. From the 
golden clouds. Wanting to 
swim in blue veins, 
 
you were drowned. The fire 
has spurted the blood. A carbon 
copy of exit strategy 
 
in your hands, you unreel 
the chains of libido in failed 
state of limbs. 
 
The cartel has littered 
the street with gentle greens, 
to buy the lips. Spurned 
 
lover commits a suicide.