Poetry

For a moonshine, 
there was no moon. 
There was no moon 
for a moonshine. 
 
It starts a tenuous 
soliloquy, raising a – 
slew of questions. 
 
Slew of questions will 
evoke a mixed response. 
 
Were you ready for 
a sleepover at the shrine 
to watch the St. Vitus’s dance. 
 
It was leaking at night 
from the corner of eyes. 
 
Unaging was the secret 
of polity. Are you in?