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.
15 december 2025
wiesiek
15 december 2025
Jaga
14 december 2025
wiesiek
14 december 2025
jeśli tylko
13 december 2025
wiesiek
12 december 2025
wiesiek
12 december 2025
Eva T.
11 december 2025
wiesiek
10 december 2025
Anthony DiMichele
10 december 2025
Anthony DiMichele