Poetry

I try to think, 
not to think of you; 
cede hope to candor. 
 
You will not contribute, 
to your own rape, of truth; 
rediscovering the shame. 
 
The modesty will not sit 
on the stigmata. 
Moths were becoming defiant. 
 
Copiously drenched, 
under the wet moon, 
a poem will seek a title. 
 
It returns back, the 
kiss, you sent for the flame. 
It was very hot, the farewell.