I won’t walk these corridors -
webbed neuronic grids.
They are holding locks on doors,
thinnish walls on lids.

This clandestine, selfish mode
(God is calling "sins")
thrives and occupies abode
of sincere chagrins.

I could save myself from gaps
of obscure upshots,
but my voice outcries and straps,
forming bloody clots.

My keen lips are loosing grip
on the fibs to spell,
Truth is waiting to be stripped
of dark secrets’ shell.

Came to Temple – found 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.

11 Вересня 2007