While eyes are inhaling the scorching sundown,
like cigarette addicts the last puff of smoke,
who’s going to tip the inferno’s crooked crown?
The life is too stumped and the radiance – choked.
The wing of weak wind is slight-broken. The crutch
is made of pure aqua reflecting the trees.
And calls to subconsciousnes wrong-numbered, to touch
all digits are clinched, silence hangs up in peace.
Light bugs lure the vision with glowing and zips,
impersonate lively rapt scenes of Stars Trek.
It’s wise to imagine, a tad less to trip –
so much in the deck, decorated, and decked.
Severing brain-washed-connections
silence is learning to lay…
Brightness with lethal injection
orderly brings disarray.
June 20, 2007
Iouri Lazirko
Copyright ©2007 Iouri Lazirko