Fence

I've written this draft poem more than three years ago and still it's not finished.


Either to fall into a subsidence

or there‘s just the way

to encourage to read

with a guidance.

It’s not a coincidence.

Water sparkled

in the air

turned into an

ice fence

spliting

a dreamscape and

an intense stare.

It‘s just thy naked existence.

So be it, it’s rare.

In a vapour of dried resin

brought from long trips

being in a state

when you don’t need

question where you’ve been to

and what hipsters with.

It’s different from any yeth

you’ve smoked,

from any perception

needed to be provoked.

It lets you write haikus to feed

the ones to smell that fragrance

or a myth.

Potentially.