Cherry blossoms bloom.
Poet waits for rhyme.
Yet the haiku lingers—
Lost in thought and time.
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To the queen, no pawns bring trouble,
If it's not a chessboard fight.
They're just toys—no more than rubble,
Empty moves and hollow might.
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Red-cheeked fools in dreams arise,
Drenched in sweat, I wake in fear.
Twisted wretches sharpen lies,
Though they vanish year by year.
CowID, war—it’s no surprise,
The ruling beasts must thin the herd.
No great secret hides their ties,
They serve the Evil, bound by word.
Fools may aid them, yet their might
Is nothing but a fleeting spark.
The beasts bring weapons back to light—
A flood of words, a shield so dark.
For fools are armor, words are blades,
Their dullness firm as stone remains.
No longer do they bring charades,
Their masters rise from shadowed plains.
These pawns are used to crush the wise,
A mass to smother thought and spark.
Too little strength is left—time flies,
And no one halts the coming dark.
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The Muse’s gate is hard to cross,
Its price is steep—of that we’re sure.
No promise shields you from the loss
Of worth, if what you bring is poor.
Madness and genius—fools proclaim
They walk as one, yet that’s a lie.
The herd, in madness, fears the flame
Of those who dare to cast off ties.
They brand as “mad” what breaks their chain,
Yet bow to whispers, dull and blind—
The teachers preaching hollow pain,
Destroying thought, unshaping mind.
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Chess—check—fall.
World—lie—thrall.
Fool—fraud—wreck.
Dust—doom—speck.
Foe—a fool.
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"All will be fine!" they say.
A rotten broth they spray,
Then pour it from the heights,
To blind and drown the sights.
The fools, once more, obey—
To toil and die they stray.
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Stationary bike
Boldly on the bike I ride,
Cherishing the cozy air.
No green landscapes stretch outside—
Just a mural hanging there.
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"Doctors," so-called
With gadgets draped, they speak in codes,
Their Latin reeks of rot and mold.
So grave, so smug—disgusting loads,
Their greed for gold is plain and bold.
Their “cures” are but a slow demise,
They drain your coin, then let you fade.
Just masking symptoms, selling lies,
Like goblins in a twisted trade.
And when CowID took its toll,
Two-thirds revealed their wretched role.
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Crossroads loom—what path to take,
When most just lead to Murk and Wrack?
Choices fade, but don’t forsake—
Step off the road, forge your track.
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Hornless Lies
"Spin myths about yourselves. The gods began that way."
— Stanisław Jerzy Lec
A myth can veil the thirst for might,
Hide horns beneath a sacred tale.
Then scriptures preach the gods were right—
Their mercy vast, their wrath so pale.
And so we watch as tyrants play,
Their legends told, their tales refined.
They promise heaven far away—
While leading us to be confined.
--- Total 10 poems. ---