Black clouds are above my head.
Black mud is under my feet.
Should I just close my eyes and go ahead?
Or should I just sit and think?
There is no one to help, but myself.
There is no one to ask, but God.
I take Bible from dusty shelf,
But to open it is too hard.
The priest is waiting for me in church,
But I’m not going there again.
I’m still keeping to search
Like everyone for money and gain.
The poet can’t write any more,
The artist lost his inspiration.
The world is behind my door,
It wants to hear my confession.
January 18, 2012.
© Copyright 2016 Olga Possokhova. All rights reserved.