23 april 2021
Carrying Scars
The prediction goes awry.
I wipe away an exotic
smudge on the paper.
I was trying to fight
venom of adverbs and
adjectives.
I want to retrieve my
poem, as it was― before
the digital onslaught of beheadings.
Give me my garden room,
baby moon and spotless
needles. My blood was blind.
I would come again in
my burial mode, when
your trenches are ready.
10 december 2025
Eva T.
9 december 2025
wiesiek
8 december 2025
wiesiek
7 december 2025
wiesiek
7 december 2025
Eva T.
6 december 2025
wiesiek
5 december 2025
wiesiek
4 december 2025
wiesiek
3 december 2025
wiesiek
3 december 2025
Jaga