The Stings

He was not ready 
for a stash of negligees 
put up by moon, on the trees. 

A hanging valley drops the pretense 
meets the river on the way 
for a rendezvous. 

Nymphs are flying randomly 
against crystals of stars 
blank night asks for nothing. 

Sometimes hallucinations are welcome 
when it is too hot inside 
and the life sucks madly. 

It was all very puzzling 
the nudes in mirrors, 
the stings in prayers. 

Leaning against the wall 
gives a scope for existence 
remember, the desires are many. 

the separateness was the idea 
to put the damper on shouts 
we are not, what we willed.