16 september 2019
An Elegy
The abundance spills on my
torn shirt, when I was
gathering your voice.
The affiliated sore
begins to fester in your face―
after flying a kite.
It blurs, when you give
a speech, manipulating the lives
of innocent bystanders.
When you were heaving the numbers,
I was holding on the poems, like coins
not your paper thoughts.
Being blind was not becoming
a Buddha in the garden.
Suicides were increasing every day.
30 june 2025
wiesiek
29 june 2025
wiesiek
27 june 2025
Jaga
26 june 2025
Atanazy Pernat
26 june 2025
Atanazy Pernat
23 june 2025
ajw
21 june 2025
Jaga
21 june 2025
wiesiek
18 june 2025
Jaga
16 june 2025
wiesiek