I won’t walk these corridors –
webbed neuronic grids.
They are holding locks on doors,
thinnish walls with lids.
This clandestine, selfish mode
(God is calling "sins")
thrives and occupies abode
of sincere chagrins.
I could save myself from gaps –
from obscure upshots,
but my voice screams out and straps,
forming bloody clots.
My keen lips are loosing grip
on the fibs to spell,
Truth is waiting to be stripped
from dark secrets’ shell.
Came to Temple – found the Path
to the Savior’s Gates.
Prayers ooze on mounting wrath,
push pure dreams to bate.
Mercy’s dewing on the face,
veins are chilled by rave.
Such a frigid, fragile trace –
walking to the grave.
June 27, 2007
Iouri Lazirko
Copyright ©2007 Iouri Lazirko