Fierce Mooning

Trotting along; fighting death -
with delaying techniques.
Chemo had failed.

Weeping Ashoka, how do I
name you differently?
I may not see you again.

I am hurt, very badly.
Absolutely rooted, firmly
in Autumn. My leaves were falling.

Pushing back the interface
between smiles and tears;
the trespasser goes to moon.

It was traditional,
garlanding the poet -
who had killed his muse.