The moon was moving
stealthily in wilderness.
Time was running out
tracing the shape.

I let her go, the
comely thing, putting on
hold, the teetering
poem.

Running faster than light, the
words catch you in midstream.
A warlord wants to put on
a helmet in night.

It was raining sparks and
cinders. You walk along the
redoubts, obliterating
simmering footsteps.
I am not a loser
dancing in the pit of snakes.
Bring the sweetness of venom.
I am alive.