Poetry

Drinking from the portrait 
of an alienated moon 
in a self-taught remedy― 
 
I was looking very 
hurt in the muse, which 
had failed the earth. 
 
I wanted to say, my 
sun was my sun, 
broken, eclipse by eclipse. 
 
Who was traitor to oneself? 
Sifting the leaves of a 
raptor, to find the death 
 
under the shade of 
sundew, which blooms 
when you become an insect.