Poetry

Peace at stake,
it worked.
Withdrawal of rubber dolls
playing with fire.

Empty bowls in lunar month.
Concords were flying very high
noiselessly crossing the peaks
of great grudges.

Pure golden hair –
of grief.
It really was miracle.
Bald eagle was waiting.
Enough time to steer a murder.

The irresistable desire
to rub with a paranoid.
Extracting a genius from mediocre genera.
Life had become too genteel.