Sunsets

This is the beauty of sunsets.
They are annihilating and you
Love them.

Great tongues of fire! How they lick and kiss blindly,
Screaming, but not descending. I am, thus, empty
And spiritless, uninhabited by this crackling noise.

It is the sound of fumy acids hissing. –
What a nuisance, I do not believe in this love potion.
It is a lie, this ephemerality; I want to get over with it.

I am sure this sunset is female. How it lies and bewitches.
Its kisses are blood red, skirting and seducing the twilight
It is a stain glass of war – war and horses kicking up

Dirt and blood. They fly into the clouds, the illusion of divinity.
The moon, too, suffers from the same misconception.
She is bald like a temple monk

But her head is a tin can, empty, like a hollow.
I do not love her – she is not beautiful.
Like the sea she is a greater lie.

But the moon does not complain, unlike the sea,
A shell stuck in my ear. It waits for the sun to fall into its depths.
It is a lie. He never comes.

This is all that is left –
It is what you do not notice:
Lies, lies, and a curse.