Poetry

The moon was coming up 
in cross-dressing style 
from he to she. 
 
Smoking in pensive mood; 
itching to be ready 
for last farewell. 
 
The evil makes you feel 
good, to prove the 
unrestricted love between the two. 
 
A slight criticism for 
Sisiphus. Why does not 
he sing like a poor farmhand? 
 
To die young makes them 
cry. Why you were burning 
your fuel without running on blazing coals?