Poetry

It was a quaint
feeling. Something was
going to happen.

I had asked the fading
moon, are you going
to die?

Fear was going to
win, it said. The blues
are approaching.

Do you believe in
probables of phobias?
The killing of big hugs?

No mercy for the
obsession of noisy celebration.
A god was changing the gender.

I forgive the fire,
forget the light and
start embracing the dark for a bang.