I was not the truth.
From where comes the light
in the dark tunnel?
Na, supposedly the sun
immolates itself in its
own flames?
There will be no
contrast with a cameo.
You will embrace the shadow
of unknown nemesis.
There was some
sleaze talk about the dancing―
moons. I always loved
the hissing snakes.
Like a terrible
toothache, my poem throbs.
I call the genie to rub the lamp.
A summer tree was breaking
into blaze.