Poetry

Sexism was chasing a 
gibbous moon whole night. 
I ask the virtuous dark, 
will you be a hangman? 
 
Targeted love was a bliss 
for a dying man. You need 
to walk on a fine line to 
attain the liberation. 
 
Despite the coveted prize, 
killing was more convenient. 
There hangs a tale, you 
cannot play the tune again. 
 
Without the hyphen, the 
other side becomes blue. 
A belief starts the tremors 
in the sleeves of a headless moon.