Poetry

The buff flaunts his elements 
in a dissenting voice. 
Don’t go into the lake. 
There were no survivors. 
 
Stop kissing the moon 
all night. Clouds were moving 
away for the coronation 
of the sun. 
 
The windowpane was broken. 
Somebody has jumped into 
the audience for a 
golden drink. 
 
It was my abstract thought 
to donate my grief to 
unrelenting god who was always 
sending a twister with daffodils.