Poetry

I was worried. 
A deviant had lost the shape, 
and had thrown a word at your face. 
 
The black name was crawling 
on the white paper. It was not 
a rape, but the abduction― 
of a mystic. 
 
The snake time. Politics. 
The crowd was celebrating the death. 
What would you say, death 
had many names? 
 
I want to sleep with you tonight, 
O moon. The slave 
had become the master.