Away in the Andalusian midnight,

through the olive trees which

cast spectral shadows,

darkening the night.

Through the black hills

where silence lingers like

a lost love.

In a forgotten café

I sit, scouring my mind

for a lost Laura.

The moon illuminates

my plans to capture

you all, and force

you to act out

apocryphal romance in

my poetic drama.

The sickle in the sky

slashes the strings

in my hands.

Puppets fall to the floor

and I am left alone.