My lord
Show me the real love
And if you don’t mind
Send it to me
with an angelic dove.

Through the bleak midnights
I sent some exclusive prayers.
Against the foggy distance, between our aches,
I stood numbly, with the urge to yearn for some touches, brimming with caresses.
My shoulders were full of tenderness, lured by the spreading lights beneath my calamity.
Our shades reflect on the waiting northern beacon; we are there, above all the sleeping folks, matted with white obedient doves, angelically, like the chosen lovers.

Above the appalling ruin, you created an icy universe.
I received nothing but shock, my eyes wandering around in miserableness. I used to yearn for garden lullabies. Deep into your bewitching gaze, I couldn't ask for more, but I committed some tender rituals within your velvet lakes, overdosing on the sanctuary when crows were nearby, cawing for more melancholic offerings.
What kind of obligation would make your full-time miracles mine?

You are wafting above my carelessness like an aged, crafty hope.

Bearing in mind that, starting from this verse, I'm utilizing as much tenderness as I can, tolerating the brainstorming of some beautiful expressions I had saved, on the American manual lexicon that I craved, your mushy wings are too soft to ponder manipulating the ruin's hell, keep your baby heart classy and friendly so you can dwell.

There are days that you are glinting like a concealed jewel, joining the stars through their ceremonies, acting cool.

I'm too rigid and miserable to smash. Your whole integrity dares not mess with the unsolved poetic puzzle in its cache.

While I’m Standing in the middle of the sleepy show , Embracing your holiness with a half-rigid conscious mind, Quetiapine is all over the tiny universe, incorporating into a hundred thunders.

ill eagles are committing suicide, and bats are celebrating the final happy ending over their corpses.
Verses turned into transparent hope, and folks died.

I’m over their terror, burying my whole calamity beneath my haunted soul, crafting some papery flowers, coloring their folds, and organizing them around your fiery throne.

Despite all those doomsday grand signs, I'm luring the romance in the sky’s red layers to possess me as a last romantic attempt, to be able to cover all your fantasies and make them come true for the last time.

My love, I’m there between your fairytales, inhaling the magic and exhaling the tragedy instead of you.

I got bunches of hope,
full of honey and milk,
rooted to your *****,
dressed in a pinkish silk,
It is craving your babyface,
wandering around your manhood,
invoking copious amounts of grace,
In order to devour as much charm as it can,
gently sluicing sediments from your weary right palm,
massaging it twice and coating it with fragrant balm.

There, In the centre of our old black and white patio,
I am Injuring the rushing longing inside my ruins.
that dares to leap onto your shoulders and make poems.

What sacrifice could I assume to make our souls entwined with a curse of permanence?

This trap is familiar, full of integrity and decorum,
I wished I could turn it into a safe spot.
I loved how it looked, and for once I pushed my impulsiveness into a bleakness, so I couldn't sense where this pain was shrieking from.

He hunted his devastation,
to mar it and make it worse
Like a perfect perturbation,
He cooked his body combination  
With his real obligation.
And he rehearsed
to let his body stalk
with its curses
And fell in love with
the death verses

Hubby,
Our fractured laugh is irredeemable.
It Is reinforcing the heroic microbes.
to brainstorm some tiny schemes.
with a lack of delicacy and tact

to recur the same cynic nights of devastation,
incorporate the sores into our throats; a full-time personification of tangible intrusion, directly to the full portrait of the Meningitis itself.

Distracting the law of the incubation hours for all strains, overpowering the blood cower, and hovering over our jaded hoarse, sneering at our last appalling psyche-knot

After this creative detention,
I’m invoking another forever torpor inside of our hearts' beats to pose another irrevocable damage that would perpetuate a close depiction of da Vinci’s Last Supper masterpiece.

Honey, Light yourself with a viral-bacterial whirlwind and sink into its bleakness beside my bewitching bind.
I'm still loving you despite all my infections.
amid the urge to enfold your tsunami and swallow its combination
Fortunately, we have survived so many different tragedies together, as a full piece of plague
above Utopia.

- The Poetic Soul

And then,
No one returned
When I had decided
to remain fragile
They are awaiting
For the destruction
Itself to crave me.