The Stings

He was not ready
for a stash of negligees
put up by moon, on the trees.

A hanging valley drops the pretense
meets the river on the way
for a rendezvous.

Nymphs are flying randomly
against crystals of stars
blank night asks for nothing.

Sometimes hallucinations are welcome
when it is too hot inside
and the life sucks madly.

It was all very puzzling
the nudes in mirrors,
the stings in prayers.

Leaning against the wall
gives a scope for existence
remember, the desires are many.

the separateness was the idea
to put the damper on shouts
we are not, what we willed.