Poetry

You had placed floating 
garden on the crest 
of five-headed white cobra. 
 
The hooded death, 
strikes; when you were 
tending to bonsai. 
 
Over to moon, 
you send the message. But 
The book was incomplete. 
 
On the way to 
tiny thoughts, an odyssean 
task to put the right words. 
 
I will go and 
stand on the edge, to 
watch the glorious senset.