Inna Simeonova


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Best Poem of Inna Simeonova

A Nightmare

They odor of covet and venom.
They cherish their money and vice.
Once defeated the wicked Black widow,
They now strive for a Crisis.

They rapture the Sacred like vultures,
Harmony in their beaks is a prey.
They declare me for not enough 'cultural',
Then molest all the virtue away.

They creep through the night and collapse
In front of the Death's sorrow gates.
She is content with the pestilent mass
And deprives me of all my rest faith.

With no left boarders surrounding
It seems I am sole in the wild.
They begin to crowd all around ...

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