Poezja

Mountains were coming down to 
never-home, 
in surreal rebuff to shaking earth; 
emerging from the shadows of sky. 
 
In groping for the legs 
this was the myth of lynching. 
You are drenched in the rains 
of promises. 
 
A kiss for each lethal penetration, 
for global time- 
you are becoming a wasteland 
borne out of swollen fingertips- 
 
who would not write any name. 
The many words of pain are finding 
a new meaning from the vocabulary 
of conceit and betrayals. 
 
A deliberate isolation brings 
the sound sleep to ashes to become a thing.