Poetry

Far away was your
home. Do I give you to
moon from love to pyre.

I myself make me
cry in loneliness of strange
words. Nightshade stabs.

Nude picture of
nasty stings were ready to
slice you half and half.

The nebulae would
blind you to tract the alien's
footprint on your chest.

My thumbmark was
sufficient to give
order of beheading of black roses.