But deceptive blood-robed pomegranates
With their piteous decay, and sullen seeds
Packed as kids’ taut skins in sand-tinted of crates;
With bloom, with ruin, and richened reeds.
Them reeds naught know of plain parched mourn
As wails it and yields to their illiterate lips;
As stumbles then snakelike out— thin and worn.
Begotten unwanted, poorly fathomed, forgotten wisps
Of old, odourless leisured hours,
That scrubbed, so gruntled, and scratched the fruit.
Then white silks soft within parched blue days;
And no heirs birthed, sublimed the flowers.
Touch it; the crumple and crêpe is not yet soot
If it could bleed, it could bloom alive, ablaze.

On again,off and then departing
From homeward sail based in the sky--
I heard the woman gowned in all phantom white
Wandering the gardeny streets,
Her barefooted steps concussing the concrete.

She walked beside me and watched as I trembled
With her eyes that windowed memories in the same way
A camera captures a scene or a seashell a slice of the ocean
And I never think to ask the whole story.

Her lips permanently signal silence,
Her skin porcelain like her nails and teeth
   And when she speaks,it's in a lilt so light it sparks your bones.

'Do you think it should rain later this morning?'
As relayed,my bones spark and my heart edges closer
To my throat. 'The sky is static-grey and gloomy as is'
She replied 'yes, but some rain would give it some character'

We spent the remaining wander without a word
   Then the woman dissapeared. On my way home
I felt droplets bite through the fabric of my shoes
    And I suppose the woman got her answer.
Sunny white morning brushed through the bushy clouds.

The cursing from behind the curtain
Footsteps loom - soon the gloom
Is fading, soon a light blooms –
Illuminating the edging
of this room’s draping
Do you dare draw back my curtain? -
Fore my heart harbors hatred, it only worsens
when you appear to divulge my death diligently.
For my love of life, simply spread extensively
so - lo and behold - you hold aloe in your ecstasy.
You left my life in brevity, akin a living enemy,
pedantry and jealousy torn ye heart asunder,
Solely at the thought of your loving maiden’s wonders.
So, you had the magic of Fra Pandolf,
you ask him to trap me on a mantle.
“That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive.” I bawl
and sob, - so frightened - as you recall the night when
Fra Pandolf’s drawing caught my likeness.
I am now caught inside it, you hold court before me
Talk of passion, power and –and of course- our sordid story
I saw you order sell-swords to execute me  
Peasants pulled me to the roof, whence they threw me
Now you see me cursed with wrath
When you pull this curtain back
Not a word is heard, Alas
‘Till this castle burns to ash

During the struggle, love can pull us up
When comfort and warmth can’t be found, we can still reach for love
Because in the end, it shows us the way
But what is love exactly? Love might be a dream, a silent reverie
It might be everyone’s fate. Or is it nothing but an illusion?
Love remains a theme dearest to poets' hearts
Whom will never stop intriguing us
With their various styles and love readings.