Poezja

To the roar,to the groan,to the listlessness, Enhanced a opaque glance through thick air, Anoint the passion of as 'twere bleak fare, Were not the deep night sounds govern the whole things, Smuggled with beliefs laid by the intuition of wrong limbs. But there had been a quiet sheep, To gawk at the apparition outta his steep sleep, Naive retinas roving palpably over the frozen ground, He saw very wild with no living syrup, Though it changed,tethered to the alone bounds. Last time-when he scraped off his feathers, The world now lies solid and leathered, To the vapid eyes,to the stupidity, we dare, To ask and skeptics might care. Cold is the day-same was the night, He never felt hunger-never desired, Things fo' he craved-lied down in basement in pairs. He walked as long as he could pretend, No life was to be entertained, Shallow was the hood,hunger and sex was all meant, former was hard to get, Indeed,introspection he could only rent. What he found mustn't be judged, a posteriori,except by him, whorl of his ear thrusted, No-love,hate,fear,happiness,sorrow-ever were, died was he already-through every nerve.