A Sight for the Sore Eyes

As I stood beneath its boughs,
I wondered about its violent expression.
Flowers scarlet casting a scarlet shadow.
A spot of red amidst the dying green.
A dash of colour stolen
from the mellowed mornings and the balmy evenings.
But the dying leaves fed the thriving summer;
a precipitating summer which precipitated death.
Creeping low amidst the mourners
-a murderer amidst dead leaves and grass-
it crept along the stem,
slithered along the boughs.
Deadly fangs poisoning the life
in future and present equally.
But the blossoms of that Gulmohar held on.
A sight dearer than life itself.
Truly, a sight for the sore eyes.

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