18 november 2020
Stone-Faced
Your interpretation
was a miracle of
unbelieving. I was not
a flesh eater.
Between paradise
and a hut, lies the sky
of colored dreams. You
lean forward to-
pluck the moon.
So stoned, was the
sinister design, that
you walked straight
into the arms of stings.
It has become a
strange saga, when a
moth burns, without
a candle.
A sun nosedives with
a water motif on the lips.
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