After a blue moon had failed and was noosed
By a ring of suicide-hopeless monsoon cloud
What can one expect except a loose morning.
A sleep’s words went berserk and other poems
Went their way in shreds and tiny fluffy pieces
Of cardboard moons still staged in a funny sky.

Morning we give up leashing by our old hands.
Otherwise old body will fly away in a runaway
Like nimbus clouds playing with a poor old sky
As each of the pieces looks a different creature
Like for instance a cat with one eye and a paw.
But wait, the morning has become a bit tighter
With the sun now up from bed and bleary eyed.
Quickly the day turns hot with a sun in control.

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