Poetry

Celebrating the summer.
Planting a wet kiss on-
the hiding moon.
Dousing the flames,
you come in crosshairs
of a mob.
You will light
your own candle now, in-
pitch-dark inside.
Impoverished. Always
poor to buy your happiness.
Like Paleolithic stab, you stay
unmoved, exposed to shadows and sun.
The water affair was kept
alive with bloody curves. No
one believes in old bones.
I will not ask you.
I will not need.