By Tomasz Wojcik

 

My scab personal reflection turns into a poem.

Metamorphosis

Nothing returns. Such times are long gone

Only mirrors gather darkness in my own reflection

Past vision they show is empty and cruel

I know thee – you are the road, I the traveller

I walk two steps back and one step forward.

My previous characters are already here

Standing and musing on the newly appeared

We sit in a circle glooming of gravity

And only cicadas herald activity

We start to move, shoulder and neck

And produce something I would call a check.

The first of us – it is me

With whom love comes to all that be

My world has bloomed as a grand nimbus

Fire burns clear when I meet with a dream

And as tree I am – straight, a grounded seam.

The second of us – it is me

With whom hate is a strong entity

My world creaks and withers in spleen

Sharp a thing sparks, tis’ not a tear

Coming from numb as water fear.

The third of us – it is me

Marked on my soaked sleeve

Pain befalls as darkness veil

Path widens and stretches here

An experience calls to arms near.

And the forth of us whom I know not

Whom I shall teach humility

With hopeful breath

With fixated gaze

I rush to pick my heart

So fragile and dear.