Poetry

A whisperer with its begging bowl 
wants a moon in alms. 
 
A candle burns in panic. 
The serpent was sitting in a prayer. 
 
The golden teeth will find the apples 
leafless, pleading for a fall. 
 
Stoking the fire, you step on a ghost. 
It was a fake, I scream. 
 
Do not tamper the ruins of the tower. 
They are going to find the death masks.