he was smoking weed in the garden
the cicadas on the branch trees
were playing music for him until
the moon appeared from behind the
dark clouds and rising
it was taking too long to die
it felt good to be alone
it felt good to be the prey
like lost in a white corridor
the waters agitating but the wind
started not blowing, for once
i knew what that was
the sound of me flenching
aspired by the mask, days counting
emprisoned in a clock tower
the cicadas on the branch trees
kept playing music
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