The Perspective Fault

With a live moon between― 
us, you were staring beyond me 
in blank looks. 

Shackled, you hang― 
from the past praises. 

In a crematorium you will now spend 
a night with some noises 
in penitence. 

You have to come out from 
the old scripture and invent 
a new libretto. 

No breathing room was left 
in the crowd. Would you 
become a little wee taller? 

Meanwhile I will listen to bird songs.