Stone-Faced

Your interpretation 
was a miracle of 
unbelieving. I was not 
a flesh eater. 

Between paradise 
and a hut, lies the sky 
of colored dreams. You 
lean forward to― 
pluck the moon. 

So stoned, was the 
sinister design, that 
you walked straight 
into the arms of stings. 

It has become a 
strange saga, when a 
moth burns, without 
a candle. 

A sun nosedives with 
a water motif on the lips.