Poetry

You were becoming more prone
to violence, confronting
the moon. Heat was rising.
 
Like a mongrel, twirling
round and round in dirt,
to sit in.
 
It was very dangerous, the
racial thought of eliminating
oneself in the mainstream.
 
A morphogenic change
was visible. Why were you
shrinking in horror?
 
The group pain was getting
a hold of me. I am not
sure, what I will do now.