Poetry

The hunger was scouring 
each house― in utopia― 
daring you to open the door. 
 
Weavers were ready for― 
the moment― of encounter― 
to spin the corona. 
 
As if an asteroid was heading 
towards the silent ariel, 
to destroy its integrity. 
 
Beyond good and bad, there 
was an effigy of a designer― 
in dancing mode. 
 
It was a jinx in your 
speed. You would not climb on a 
walk without a rope.