What Times

The upbeat moon
becomes dazed, when you
start, the dance of death.

Personified, lone word,
unloved; changes the
choreography.

Given space, a sick
crowd, expands, unsquares,
for the throne.

The abysm from which
the cicadas are crawling out
to devour our being.

I do not want to
control you, your song.
I am burning in my own holocaust.