Poezja

Aghast at the― 
burning brutality and domination 
of the glaring sun, I will 
ask the moon, when will 
it release the hormones. 
 
A palm size, 
unscripted poem, struggles 
to come on the surface; 
pulled between the moon 
and the sea. 
 
The libidinal instinct, 
overtakes the activist. A newly 
minted face throws the shadow; 
equivocal. The traffic of 
poppies will freeze in the tracks. 
 
Here are the keys and 
there were the locks.