The scimitar moon crashes

And the scimitar moon was swallowed by the cement silhouettes

Silently, tucked under the darkness of the streets

We were born to fail at knowledge and the divine.

Made for small dreams that flutter like moths around the fire:

Crackling their wings upon the flames, mistaking them for the sun.

Great sentences written on white sugar packages

give pieces of small truths, reflections of a faultless eternity

that only exists in crumpled paper balls inside of oneself.  

Night takes reason by mouthfuls, licking its fingers after each bite,

carelessly dropping crumbs that we devour with a napkin in our collars,

nodding and  bowing at each other’s shrewdness.

And the streets were empty now, for a second

While the moon crashed onto the concrete ground

And turned each of its shards into a weapon.