Luna tried to make lunch;
It tasted sweet as summer
but has become fire.
My insides burn like
a volcano; molten slag
burns my intestines.
Never again shall
I be foolish enough to
eat of the moon's feast.
Until winter comes
to the hell of my insides,
I shall curse myself.
For I had my fears,
But love had blinded me to
The faults of my love.
She who cannot cook,
Not to save my life; although,
She could well end it.
No comments:
Post a Comment