17 marca 2021
A Dying Hymn
Your face had only the
eyes, when you flew backwards,
hovering like a humming bird.
There was no absolute,
hoisting the beheaded god.
In transience I will meet you
in air and shed the body.
In mouth-hole you put
all your wisdom, to bisect the
virgin house. Violence creeps into
the roses. They droop and bleed.
I will talk to burgundy-black
moon, not to leave footprints on
my face. My lips are going to
catch the stolen kisses.
19 marca 2026
sam53
19 marca 2026
wiesiek
18 marca 2026
wiesiek
18 marca 2026
violetta
17 marca 2026
wiesiek
17 marca 2026
sam53
16 marca 2026
Jaga
16 marca 2026
wiesiek
16 marca 2026
Jaga
15 marca 2026
wiesiek