Poetry

The moon was moving 
stealthily in wilderness. 
Time was running out 
tracing the shape. 
 
I let her go, the 
comely thing, putting on 
hold, the teetering 
poem. 
 
Running faster than light, the 
words catch you in midstream. 
A warlord wants to put on 
a helmet in night. 
 
It was raining sparks and 
cinders. You walk along the 
redoubts, obliterating 
simmering footsteps. 
 
 
I am not a loser 
dancing in the pit of snakes. 
Bring the sweetness of venom. 
I am alive.