Poetry

Talking to bougainvilleas, 
one day I will cut my tongue. 
Why the beautiful bracts were 
protecting the trivial seeds? 
 
The flowers started clicking 
to deliver a white god to a black 
temple. Human shield was to 
avenge the enemy beyond the infinity. 
 
Below the ashes what were you 
trying to find out in dark? 
The cancer? It was eating away 
the vitals of an orphaned fruit. 
 
The predator had become the 
prey, drawing the sheet of 
blood on the moon. The birds 
were leaving the tree.