Poezja

There was left no middle, 
of the path. It was a washed- 
out theme and 
negative numbers. 
 
No bounce in the steps. 
You were cowering in terror 
of tomorrow. The fear 
overwhelmed the alp. 
 
It was a family feud, 
from ashes to bones. 
The mixed cadence was sending 
the wrong signals to the walls. 
 
The voices now come on the street, 
for traditional wars, in 
change of seasons. It 
was raining out of turn.