a silent cry
followed by violent shouts
sullen coves
darkened funeral spouts

the undertaker dressed in black
eyes of coal
he never looks back

widow (maker)
spun around
her dresses long
her feelings down

empty shoals
crowned in blue
legs of scars
moon, new

hear her cry
head thrown back
sobbing swallowed
coughing hack

skin transluscent
soft yet untouched
nocturnal creature
fallow of *****

withdraw the bow
pull the sword
unappreciated spied my lord

empty cages open and shut
downward spiral
a violent cuck

harrowed adventure
blighted by (sh)fame
ignorant ties
hollow frame

guilty no more
follow on back
open your mouth
scream from of the lack

trust embellished
overly surmised
internal wicking
her sad lonesome eyes

It was my 18th
And you were to be soon.
In few sunsets and the moon
Equal as me, mind and thought.

And now as my 27th approaches
Minus the flowers and a red balloon.
In our town, our serene Doon
You remain, just a happy thought.

There is love in the winter air,
But I still feel chilly at noon.
Have I lost my warmth or become a loon?
You remain, just a happy thought.

As the next month comes by
I'll wait with my pseudo platoon.
And watch TV shows and cartoon.
Till I see you happily married
And bid your family goodbye.
Then I would finally cry
Seeing lost all love I had bought
From you, but still you'll remain
Just a happy thought.

a baker's dozen
number  of cards in a suit
the number thirteen

I don't know whats in the steps that I take
The tears that I shed
The heavy breaths that I am taking

Nor do I know the direction
The pain in my heart
Is taking me

I don't know whats in the words that I hear
The scene that I see
The weight of the load that I feel

The sky's color
When it finds the place
It hopes to find

I don't know
What to feel, what to see,
What to hear and what to say

I don't know how to pronounce
Any of the words
In the language of love

And I don't know how much further
I can walk this path
Before I fall apart

I wake up to the honey buttered toast on a thin china plate.
Chamomile just at the right temperature.
Brown sugar sprinkled on my fresh strawberries.
If I want any caramel macchiato there’s still some left on the stove warm for me.
Peeled and sliced oranges with crisp bacon.
.
.
.

All that you promised to make me when we move in together and start a life together. Guess I'll never get that Sunday breakfast.