Sexism was chasing a
gibbous moon whole night.
I ask the virtuous dark,
will you be a hangman?

Targeted love was a bliss
for a dying man. You need
to walk on a fine line to
attain the liberation.

Despite the coveted prize,
killing was more convenient.
There hangs a tale, you
cannot play the tune again.

Without the hyphen, the
other side becomes blue.
A belief starts the tremors
in the sleeves of a headless moon.