Poezja

 
You punish yourself 
for not becoming a naught. 
The triumph had 
destroyed you completely. 
 
A seductive purr 
of a surrogate write, 
wants to lift your parameters 
without attribution. 
 
A vague integrity was 
choking the vitals. 
The defeat was within. 
You failed to accept the judgement. 
 
Rendered clean after 
the bristled attack, your shirt 
does not show stains 
of slurred concentrate. 
 
The guilt was not the same. 
It was the ephemeral moon. 
Night was not going to wait. 
I was not ready to sin.