Drowned Syndrome

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.