6 october 2019
Concealed Fever
It is raining.
The water colors.
I miss the ache.
When, to wear a crimson
dot on forehead, the sky
had become a bride.
Destiny fractured.
Why did't I tell the lies
to achieve the greatness?
Not my effects. I stare
blankly at your portrait.
Blaming the conceptual
crisis, you cannot speak the truth.
Weaving a web of unseen
threads, you hold a poem
ready to take a flight.
21 november 2025
wiesiek
20 november 2025
wiesiek
20 november 2025
Jaga
19 november 2025
Jaga
19 november 2025
ajw
17 november 2025
wiesiek
16 november 2025
wiesiek
15 november 2025
Jaga
14 november 2025
wiesiek
13 november 2025
Jaga