Poetry

While ascending throne, 
you cover up your tracks― 
by putting up the somber demeanor. 
I don't find myself happy. 
 
No stings visible. The world 
is savagely beautiful, always 
indulging in finding a goat. 
Can you see through a person? 
 
Wooden legs cannot take you very― 
far. What you need was your intent, 
to scramble and make a kill 
of a subtone. 
 
The crowd goes in a tizzy. 
Tortoise in a bag, was moving 
faster than the man.