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Ninko Kirilov Poem
The curfew of the liver - long gone.
The crowd - drunk, delusional, blank.
We were driving, standing still or worse -
both at the same time.
Howl time, bone time, penetration time
ticking slowly in shadows' breaths.
The war will never be over and
we finally get it.
A soul transplant,
an euthanasia of disfunctional dreams.
Do you still hear the crowd?
These mechanic voices of your mothers.
They whisper:
Shoot.
Copyright © Ninko Kirilov | Year Posted 2023
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