Poetry

Waiting for a birthing pool 
to throw up a dream chaser 
nestled in chains. 
 
The grip was easing out 
on sun, stung by moon. 
Asteroids start hitting again. 
 
The runaway tiger had 
turned cannibal, to practice 
a new escapology. 
 
A spiral of smoke 
rises after the hunt. 
You throw the glances back. 
 
Someone will put a knife 
in the tulips. Take home 
the colours of death. 
 
The celebration starts today. 
Children of a bubble have 
come out on the road.