Beneath the boughs of green and gold,  
Where whispers of the past are told,  
He stood, a heart both fierce and shy,  
A question poised beneath the sky.  

His best friend’s eyes, a steady flame,  
Met his, a mix of hope and shame.  
A laugh, a nudge, a teasing cheer,  
Yet now he spoke, and silence near.  

“I love you more than words have dared,  
More than moments we’ve ever shared.”  
The wind held breath, the branches stilled,  
As longing, once hidden, was fulfilled.  

She smiled, the softest, sweetest curve,  
A response that calmed each nerve.  
“I’ve waited for this truth to bloom,  
For love to fill this quiet room.”  

Under the pear tree, old and wise,  
They found their courage, shed disguise.  
Roots entwined, like fates aligned,  
Two souls confessed, no longer blind.  

And in that dusk, beneath the leaves,  
They wove a story time believes.  
For love once whispered, once set free,  
Can only grow, like that old tree.

Im a broken soul
Laughing and twirling
Under the stars
Of the bleeding Heavens

When dreams make the
shadow of their evil real ,
then walk the sodden path
of forgetfulness .
☆
Forgetting of all life , love
and tenderness of human
touch .
☆
Vanquished , youth's idyll
lay bound in silken chains of regret .
Blinded eyes plucked out ,
lay on a silver tray at his
side .
☆
Discarded and unloved .
☆
Like a meagre meal
in poverty's room ,
the soul is dissected and
eaten piecemeal by devils .
☆
While in dead of night
or blazing sun of noon ,
the stench of rotting dreams
shrouds Eternity over those deadened eyes .

What an odd tradition,
Ripping the living from everything they’ve known,
To be agonizingly used,
Carved and cut and shaped to fit,
Until there’s nothing left.

What an odd tradition,
The pain of one thing
Brings joy to another,
How it must feel,
To be suffering inside but appearing with a smile.

What an odd tradition,
Why are we drawn to pain and torment,
Why must we paint on a face that isn’t meant to be,
Why do we slice masks of smiles on faces aching with sorrow

Maybe it’s not such an odd tradition.

she casts her pencil like a wand as magic soaks into the page her flannel cascades around her work, shielding it from curious eyes she tilts her head to listen to the lecture, but her heart is elsewhere running through castles and stumbling through candle lit streets colors tangle to mirror the expanse of her dreams she shares her soul with every meticulous stroke each face blessed by her style but never the same when she designs she never aims for perfection for she knows perfect is just a fancy way of saying flawed she erases and redraws as if her art could never satisfy her desires it can always be better but it is never good enough if only she knew I meant it when I told her I loved her drawing her art speaks to me like Mona Lisa never could