Poetry

It was 
a killing line. 
Walking on razor wire, 
when toes would not leave the sky 
and heels will not touch the ground. 
 
Myths and legends 
were becoming a witchcraft. 
Are you ready to eschew the classical script 
and write a new fable, about 
a life size robot, 
 
who will speak for millions 
and put his signature on the wall 
of a dying moon for the sake of blue clouds? 
The caldron is empty. No body was 
throwing any baby in it. 
 
Stay still. 
The bold instincts will come back with vengeance.