Poetry

The blue veins, 
defending brazenly 
the pink gloves. 
 
Unwedded to moon, 
I become sick 
of hypocricy of hands. 
 
As the boulders slide 
on chest, to unbring the infancy 
of snowfall. I put my shovel down. 
 
Was it too early to start 
the game pf ravishing 
the temple of stains? 
 
Looking at the pillars 
that would not hold the 
ceiling, inviting the moment’s eternity.