Poetry

There was an urgency―
to finish the job,
beheading the tulips.
 
Wolves were coming.
 
The surveillance had failed.
Nothing but clouds between
the titles.
 
Writing was illegible.
It was the last offensive
of blankness.
 
Before the dawn.
You have to draw a crescent
moon on my forehead.
 
I am going to scream.