Poetry

The double-edged truth 
had the exoticism. The blood was 
in air. A blue bird draws 
a red line, indulging in spiritualization 
of a gray design. The testosterones 
chart the trajectory in the flame 
of the forest. 
 
You deploy your army in zero 
hour. Colored leaves start casting 
the spell. You listen to the rustling 
of skirt. Moon was walking in. 
 
A pink sword and sharpened 
claws. After the vulture hit, 
the death wil swoop down on you suddenly.