Poetry

The space between the 
two ends, was becoming 
a game of thorns. 
 
The leprous increase 
tips the moon. An unseen 
virgin becomes red rose. 
 
It was another day in 
the desert. I don't want 
to become a prophet. 
 
A titular sun was 
collecting the lilies to 
divide the night in halves. 
 
Manipulating the nucleus, 
are you ready to accept 
the uncommitted sin?