By the vague darkness of crepuscule's foe,
Throned in eventide; Thou art an empress.
Sitting queenly like a calm hiss of ***.
Thine eyes of aurora's hold thine fortress.

Whilst laying there upon the lustrous day,
Is an emperor of dreadful distress.
Owning that place where melancholias lay.
Bestowed upon him a might to oppress.

They're separated by continuum.
Living in the words, they are antonyms.
Coloring the dullness, they are contrast.
And by his destiny they are unmatched.

She's the one he wants but can never have,
And stars above, he wrote: Our tragic love.

I will never write a poetry about you.

Because what I wrote were my unsaid pains.

Uncried tears.

My broken self.

And I don't want you

To be one of them.

In this world,

Where letters are my warriors,

Words are my wounds,

Sentences are my scars,

And a poem is my pain,

I'll forever keep you

As my whisper of peace

Beyond cold wars.

As my tap of rest

Beyond tiredness.

As my click of happiness

Beyond grief.

Because

You are way more than

Those unbearable pains.

You are way more than

Those uncurable wounds.

You are way more than

Every poetries I wrote, baby.