When my poem
zeroes in, on the full moon,
I jump the blues.

Wanted to have a
meme of alt-left
pain in chest, leaning on
old tricks.

Wordless trivia,
eats the logic. The vacuum
always fills you up with
new thoughts.

Moon writes itself,
his story in dark. I
will catch the fireflies,
put them in matchbox― to
celebrate my childhood.

Sometimes you feel better
when the past matters.