The silence is deafening,
Beheld upon the creaking drawers of an escritoire,
The sonorousness of all and none,
Still, oh so still,
May the hands of which lay immobilized by this muddled mind of mine.

Treacherousness in the flesh!
It dawned on us,
As he set our home in flames,
And walked away,
From his progeny’s ashes.

Your appearance was much anticipated,
Well past nightfall,
Within these verses,
The palace of my thoughts,
Vivid as a thorn-filled valley of red blood roses.
As if to say,
“Love in itself, is such striking poetry”.

Your scent lingers the air,
A distant fragrance,
Subtle taste akin,
An acacia honey toast,
On a midsummer’s fête champêtre.

The mind is a lone wanderer,
Perpetually in thought,
Amidst the crowds alike,
Of fantasies untouched,
And faux foresight.

Cascades of light may reach one's toe,
When fate condones it so.
The warmth, the gleam,
Of skin therein,
With the sun,
Will betimes fade.

Thus be wise,
To relish it so,
For the ray might not recur.

The sound of her heart it resonates,
In a tunnel endless and wide,
Far to grasp,
And late to reach.