Poezja

Life had tossed you in
flames.
Like hearthstone, I sit
deleting my colors.

Time on black feet
runs, on the sacred
river bank.

Molten lava will ask
when, and from where
the funeral procession will start.

A hard core wants
the evidence of rape. Two
leaves will not cover
the naked aggression.

The spooky game had
become, ultimately- the biopic. Once
angles used to roam
on the burning coals.