Poetry

There was a lapse 
before the fall of moon. 
I am standing in dark. 
 
A wolf a day was 
enough to eat me. The digital 
pain seeps in the 
sad ceremony. 
 
Someone buries 
the hatchet in stars far away, 
wearing the black mask. 
 
I steal your poeny. 
Your velvety voice for the 
sake of wronged yellow. 
 
A candle burns 
in the white room, bereft 
of any trappings.