Poezja

There were, peels 
of ripples. Between. 
 
The tangled arguments. Then you 
start reading in the bumps; 
a cold blooded murder. 
 
Of poems? Serrated, when 
 
I lifted them from your bloody hands. 
No miracle. The animal 
survives, without water, air. 
 
You come down the ramp 
without shoes to reclaim 
the heritage. 
 
And that means, there had been 
an attempt, to commit suicide!