22 lutego 2017
Solitudes
The questions hang like skin tags.
A broken mirror, stabs
during birth of time.
We have got to do it, save it
in its infancy, before it is submerged
along with the temple of fake gods: -
before it is plagiarized by the
polity. The wives were fattening
on art of running the state
from behind the curtains. Would
you like to sign on my skin?
Your death wish? I am washing
my sins today. It is bit cold
here in the blue lake of tears. Now
you can hold my arm for final plunge.
11 listopada 2025
normalny1989
11 listopada 2025
sam53
11 listopada 2025
wiesiek
11 listopada 2025
Weronika
11 listopada 2025
AS
10 listopada 2025
sam53
10 listopada 2025
wiesiek
10 listopada 2025
Toya
10 listopada 2025
ajw
10 listopada 2025
sam53