Poetry

Were you ready for a virginity test 
to cross the umbrella of harpoons. 
A chilled moon 
 
will welcome you after slaying 
the hot sun in the valley 
of gods. A schism scoops 
 
ignominy. Seeing the lights 
which were not there. Almost 
sexy, the sky pretends to unrobe. 
 
No weeping. A Caucasian brings 
red grapes for a naming 
ceremony of black password, 
 
searing the age of complicity. 
A rocket propelled grenade 
is going to blast a whisper.