Poetry

In a haunting trove -; 
there was a synthetic insanity. 
I asked the moon 
to scan the chest. 
 
Fever was rising. 
You eject your eyes in a bowl 
of silver to read the 
lines of money. 
 
A stark effect overwhelms 
the spectrum, like the components 
of a booty, to be digested 
for deep flaws of society. 
 
I should, if I could 
rip open the zipped mouth 
of black death to count the 
teeth of shrunk questions. 
 
After all it was democracy.