Poppy lilac
The poppy lilac blooms in borrowed light,
Red petals whispering to violet breath.
It grows where memory forgets its name.
Morning leans close to smell the colour.
Bees hesitate, unsure which dream to choose.
The stem trembles like a held confession.
Purple dusk stains the pollen gently.
Roots drink stories buried by summers.
No season claims this flower fully.
It opens only when no one asks.
Between poppy fire and lilac sleep,
Silence learns how to be soft.
Kasia Dominik ©
Testament Written By The Wind
The wind unfolds the testament page by page.
Each sheet is thin as her unfinished breath.
Her illness signs the margins in shaking ink.
Names scatter like leaves that never return.
The air reads aloud what she could not say.
Corners curl under invisible fingers.
Pain becomes a sentence without punctuation.
Promises tear along the fold of time.
The wind does not correct the spelling.
It only carries the truth forward.
Her life is revised by movement.
The last page flies, unsigned, complete.
Kasia Dominik ©
The Hand That Writes After Death
A dead hand rests on the edge of paper.
Its veins remember how to hold a pen.
Ink moves where blood no longer can.
Words pulse without a living heart.
The wrist is stiff, but meaning bends.
Each line escapes the silence of bone.
The poem breathes though the hand cannot.
Letters rise warmer than the flesh.
Death pauses to read what it missed.
The page becomes a second body.
Writing refuses to lie still.
The hand is gone, the poem alive.
Kasia Dominik ©
KASIA DOMINIK
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