Poezja

Taking refuge behind the 
solemn words, you speak loudly. 
 
It rattles you, when you― 
hear, it was the world's end. 
 
I have not yet spoken to you 
about the happenings, which never happened. 
 
You want to slingshot the 
malignancy without your remedy. 
 
Illegible was the writing 
on the parchment. I must dig up the ruins. 
 
Matter of instinct, when you start 
washing your hands and spitting unendingly.