Poezja

The one happening; 
which never happned. 
A slice of mock invasion on 
inner sanctum to find your own name. 
Who were you? 
A mind not on the mend? A 
house you were not living in? 
 
The forecast was wary of strangers. 
A deadly intent was hurling 
the desires onto the stones 
of eyes. A fog hides the melt. 
 
You were not ready for syntax, 
a rhyme breaks into sobs. 
Washed by pain, a sting 
becomes the poem.