Poetry

Multiple hurts― and
you still want to live
in this dystopia.

The queue was
lengthening to catch up
with moon.

The gate man will talk
of an apocalypse.
The repeat flame, which
does not die in the presence
of sun.

The thoughts. Will they
ever stop in dark? The
moonlight gathering the ashes.

The erotica fails to
cast the net. You want to
collect the venom of desire
capping the end blues.