Poetry

In black midnight, 
the white moon, like a nun 
sits stonely. 
 
The sliding moon is toxic 
and you are not ready to 
die for the theme. 
 
The high priests will 
weave the faux mantras to 
invoke the goddess of wealth. 
 
The debt pervades in every 
relief. I survive the ignominy 
of not touching a yogi. 
 
And you, little brown bread, 
will not feed the thousands 
who come clamouring for a bite.