Poetry

This September. It is
going to be very quiet.
 
I am trying to caress
the mimosa, which
always said,
touch-me-not.
 
The spontaneous probe
will start the construct in love
of philosophy to mimic
the animal plus
the femineity.
 
A clock was moving
without hands. Time was up
but legs were amputated.
How will you walk
towards your truth?