Poetry

Moon was playing
with a skylark. I give
a whistle. He ducks behind
the palm.

This was your figment
of imagination. You had
said, bring the last sound
of the forest.

I was the giver.
I am the taker.

An immaculate kiss
of the flame will decide
the destiny of bullet.

There was no distance
between the lips and
the hiss of the venomous snake.