Reached,
not yet pubescence:
a cloud says, moon was
crazy, treading on a
forbidden lake of frozen tears.

Breaking fast unto death
for releasing the doves
in sky of hymns.

The gametes were weary.
Procreation will wait.
Let the dark particles
start a ceremony of scoops
to carry the impatient twister
inside me,

to pull off the yokes and
set the flames free.