Poezja

It was not the ordinariness. 
The pain of rejection. One 
night my lips touched 
the lips of moon, to soak the 
grief. Do not want to cross- 
the threshold of guilts, like 
burnished armor 
taking the law into my own hands. 
 
Waiting for a spacewalk 
of the gods to find the culprit, 
who escaped before your 
own eyes through the gauze 
of silver dust. To quit the ground 
or not was the cardinal point. 
You remained attached to the 
faded poster of childhood. It was 
a generational tragedy.