Poezja

Butterfly interrupted. 
Fear grips the flowers 
eaten by the winds. 
 
I seek the guilt for 
not walking on the dunes 
to build a sky. 
 
The cracked roof 
lets in the rain. I 
drench my driftwood. 
 
One day a god will sit 
on my altar to speak 
to ailing mother- 
 
earth hauling away 
the burden of waste 
of human verbiage.