Poetry

The upbeat moon 
becomes dazed, when you 
start, the dance of death. 
 
Personified, lone word, 
unloved; changes the 
choreography. 
 
Given space, a sick 
crowd, expands, unsquares, 
for the throne. 
 
The abysm from which 
the cicadas are crawling out 
to devour our being. 
 
I do not want to 
control you, your song. 
I am burning in my own holocaust.