The moons and clouds converse in italics. I stand with wings to catch
falling words not meant for me.
A smell in the wind forces reminiscing. I'm reminded of the world where
buddha smoke was oxygen, the children become the fauna of self created
utopia.
Clearly made to heighten the drum beat in all of us, I dance while time
rapes me on this magnificent island. Once I retire from the dance floor, I
steal a piece of gold from the lion's heart. Don't be fooled, for
it's from the lion with it's mane set aflame in the pale glow from
the moons. I now take this gold to the mother of god and hope this is enough
to persuade her into forgiving me, for I have killed her son.
 
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