I don't burn bridges, I preserve those wonders of old. I let the waters rise, whilst I remain underneath its ridges and contours.

I don't burn bridges, not because that I am mature.

I don't burn bridges, because I am alone; and a bridge is a well travelled road.

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

Both are now withered black, and dead.

Much like my love for you.

My heart is fragile and frail, and few are the words that she so sparingly; so seldom says.

"I love you."

My heart, she says.

I am haunted by a soulful song; lacking lyrics, lo lost, lest lament found.

I am taunted by a merciless melody, mixed - measured threefold - with melancholy and memories legend-long.

Salvation and sweet, shall be Silence's Sound.

The home you miss, is my burden; the longing of distance and miles is not there.

Concealed within living bone and spiral, no conquered land can I long winter, and longer yet retain.

Would you miss it - if it were always near? Those crude constructions composed of flora's corpses and Oran's nails; compose another, and... Still ye dismay:

"The house is similar, but the home is not the same."

A home requires a heart, but man has long since lost theirs; so crawling, I wonder:

"What difference is there?"

I compose these sentences anew, sometimes in timely thought, sometimes in utter urges; yet always they be too few; to express but a mere three words: "I love you."

A gentle kiss for one longed missed. A white dove from above for dearest beloved. My lady has it been a thousand moons; by God's will, I'll see you soon.

Eyes of that of blue moon, what greater sight than bride to groom? In sickness and in health so shall this be. In poorness and in wealth stay by me.

From the moment this knot is tied, until the day this man has died; I'll be there to wipe your tears; I'll be there to fight your fears; I'll be there to keep you safe; I'll be there to hold you near.

Whether it be day light or eternal night, you should forever be the apple of my sight.

I am thinking of all the words that I never got to say; all of the letters and apologies, only published within my brain.

I am trapped within this reverie of revived memories; of when you were by my side.

The warmth of dawn feels as though a cruel, albeit gentle lie. My Sun...set, tis that day, when you left me with why.

Why?

Why... couldn't I make you stay? Why does everything I grasp tightly... still slip away?

The world is not perfect, nor is it kind; with each progressive step forward, we leave more behind.

The rich give a copper piece, while they take ten gold. Has your charity forgotten the old man and boy, who harvest your coal? What merit is there in giving, if one takes more?

It's interesting, that humans have made "humanity" a show; kindness, compassion, fun, how many do you know?

For a world that's global warming, the hottest summer days feel so... cold.

Perhaps it is a global warning, to let the others knows, that most of us have a house... but too few, a home.

This house is a prison, its cells are polished purple heart, behind which I am truly alone; I am the person who admires this "purple" heart, though I loathe my own.

I am a whisper, reaching far and wide, through this phone. To most my words are beautiful poems; to few they are more; something that their hearts can hold, and have some warmth amidst the cold.

I spent the day with you, waiting for the Sun to set; that I might kiss you in the darkness it left behind.

Parents bark, bite, and blame.

I raise my earphones' volume so high, that I don't hear my pain.

I will love you, until we are black and blue; bruised by these pains and pleasures, that I offer you.

These orchids are yours, and with them, all colours known to earthly sight.

They shall prove rigid, ever blocking Time's course, professing eternity their right.

Roses express my affections well; blooming amidst the warmth of Summer, fed to satisfaction by the dew of your lips . . . yet they shall wither.

Then dry dust shall be my affections' well; blooming Lycoris Radiata legions advancing amidst the warmth of Death's banner . . . Towards our love's ellipse . . .

YET -

These orchids are yours, and with them, the multi-folded papers from which their fibres and petals are equally composed. These are humble gifts, but were they to boast: "We orchids offer to thine love, an eternity; an assurance of perpetuity, by toast."

Dear Diary, perhaps you might tell me: "What Do You See?"

Cause the mirrors offer a reflection, that just cannot be: An eighteen year old boy, who's both happy and healthy.

Dear Diary, Dear... Who? Perhaps you might credit the broken creature that penned you. The one that inflicted these tears and tears; these crude reflections... recreations of its own scars and pains.

Dear Diary, Dear... Who? This question is one, that you wonder too. Perhaps ironic, as the answer is known only by you; just call me, Dear Who.

Time is fleeting, time is fair, and if it were a maiden; her beauty none dare compare. Her youthfulness in spring, and calm eloquence in winter, like a rain drop on sea as mighty as is gentle.

I am the boy who sits at the back of the class; I am the myth and legend, that you have never heard laugh.

I am the eloquent, who so seldom speaks "Good day." and "Goodbye."
I am the b r o k e n, though you will never see me; p a r t i a l or cry.

I am the Lie.

I am the Lie, well housed in the illusion of an ever-present smile.

I am the wary traveller, exhausted yet still encouraging others to walk the extra mile.

I am the dying and ill, who screams to others. "Keep surviving and living, hold fast to your will; life once truly lived, has both bad and good."

I am a human... for better or worse. I am a duality to all others; either a blessing or a curse.

I am a song sang, though others remember only a verse... I am a play, that has been exhaustively rehearsed.

I may be falling in love, or going crazy, though perhaps they're both the same.

I fell in love with the silence, a married man entertaining this affair; cause my heart does not belong to the silence, when you call my name.

My heart professes perpetuity, and was so faithful to, yet my mortality minds no frame nor memory of you.

This epidermis sheds and skins from disuse; need my heart evidence, might my chill-cracked palms be your proof?

The contours of your constitution, all known by their names, are perhaps now amended by the passage of passing age and days.

The sirens of your voice's sound, awaken me from my dreams; the symphonies of my soul's supplications, now so strange and foreign seem.

My heart professed perpetuity, and is so faithful to, so should this skeleton and its dependents devoice - mon Amour; my heart remains with you.

How fleeting is my lady's beauty? How fleeting is the pride of younger days? When we had laugh and cried with candied serenity all the same. How fleeting are those youthful days, now my lady and I are old and grey.

There's a lone one, in alone.
A
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I could write a novel, with all these words I didn't say. And, I could hold a concert, with all these screaming voices in my brain.

I can't see my future, with my present sight, but mother says that I will be alright.

I have been skipping online classes as of late; assignments turned cold, piled up on my plate.

I am uncertain of what the future holds, certainly apprehensive of tomorrow.

Sweet... so sweet at first; as if intending to overbear, and then in a moment's breath, the intensity having mellowed fades.

Next one's tongue does greet, a nuttiness that begs it to retreat; reviving dead memories of when you two first did meet.

Having now fallen from heights, be they ***** or steep; the taste of your tongue becomes bittersweet. Ending this final kiss, silently pledging to lose neither hope nor sleep; heartbreak leaves the taste of caramel upon your teeth.

There is no need for noble graces, with you, I have none. Just one entreat, request and command: "Come."

'You' see me for what I truly am, behind this regalia of dignity and honour; hides a ****** man. Now come, and heed my command.

Love is the investment, without a guaranteed return. So check the markets, and seek consultation; lest your capital gets burn.

And your love... unrequited and unheard.

My sheets dream of you, those dreams I do not dare. Polyester and cotton, impress upon themselves your figure; defined, blue and dear.

To long for a stranger, to be more than one's friend. Might you resist the urges, to cast pity upon them; for these fabrics were woven from naivete and virginal optimism.

My love is a burden, whose weight few have known, but for you... Might the Kg be measured and shown.

And may these sheets, no longer dream such dreams, as you call my bed - Your Home, with glee.

I will wait, until Autumn allows your loneliness, to fall - leaves - amid an array of affection arising.

If love had ever had an antidote, then it would be all the words that we never spoke; buried by the linguistic silence of our throats.

Few are the poems that I have wrote, yet the pens might as well be Chinese, that I have broke. Our love was once an eagle's wings, custom made to sing hymns whilst we sinned; like mere children, so impassioned by any and everything - Now love is the yoke, both burdensome and binding.

Another glass of wine, to silence the silence speaking within my mind.

Another laugh... Another whine, these ten thousand thoughts, and their sweet sorrows; I claim as mine.

Another glass of wine, for these wounds shall be slow to close with time. Numb me, by the virtue of the Vine; liberate my heart of the bitterness of Lime; baptise me, as yet another glass of wine; I claim as mine.

O my heart, broken and betrayed; beaten, battered, bruised beyond Beauty's bear.

Though my eyes haven't yet spilled a single tear, O my heart, with aches foretell of heavy rain; of regret and remorse religiously retained.

At first my breath had ceased... had paused. Then my heart and mind; love and logic had waged a war; leaving my severed spirit... to bear its dear cross - Both Forsaken And Lost.

I managed to find the beauty, buried beneath your pain; your little bit of sunshine, life had buried; though its possession you retained.

I'm laying in my bed, staring at the ceiling. You're staying in my head, and I can't shake these feelings.

My every word and deed, confesses that you are my need; love has sown her seed, and from it roots my heart bleeds.

I'm laying in my bed, while you're laying in my head, and so this tragedy begins. Might someone please rid Shakespeare of his pen, and let this story come to its end?

The tempest winds are blowing strong, I am slowing falling down; I feel that I am suffocating underneath water, but I can't seem to drown.

My heart can't get any sleep, causes it speeds up its beat, when I tell you that I love you... but you don't repeat.

I am staring at the ceiling, imagining that you are staring back, and for now... I am content with that.

This is the melancholy of Innocence, so do sit and have a glass. Drink slowly, and savour the taste friends; for innocence shortly lasts. She is as a flower, most beautiful at bloom, but, we must not forget now; that flowers must wither too.

So what is the sadness... the melancholy of Innocence, if all things must pass away? Perhaps it is the longing then, that one's innocence did remain. Yes, the melancholy of Innocence; is that deepest longing, day after day. The longing for something, you know well that you can't regain.

O, my silent singing bird, how I worry for you this day; for without hymns or choruses, you have allowed the Sun to fade.

Lo, though I have your ear, your heart is anything... anywhere but near, but here; for you, my silent singing bird sings a song of silence; souless symphonies of sorrow your aid.

Were only your chirps of greeting and discourse of our hopeful meeting, I could hear; then I would think it a concert, and listen well to the performance that you have prepared.

Your every pore, my tongue wishes to explore... to know.

Whilst my hands long to touch the nucleus of your soul.

Let my ears hear the harmonies of your unbroken moans.

I shall inhale the sap and nectar of Love's tree, greedily, as your falling flowers' pollen bury me; within a living tomb of ecstasy.

We will see, all of the animals and beasts, we lovers can be; when "Human" nature runs free.

There's writing on the wall, and it all seems so clear. I'm living to give you my all, and you're dying to get away.

Your last text was long, though there was so much that you had left unsaid. You had asked me to be strong, and accept that you were my yesterday. Tell me! What is forgiveness' debt that I see it paid?

My body is keeping up this lie; my eyes don't want to cry. A part of me is missing from the inside, and that part had told me... "Goodbye."

I met with him, again beneath that Willow tree, whose roots ensnared all the land that could be seen.

Though the most striking of imagery, to me, was the fact that December's snow-white sovereignty, was usurped by a vibrant, vital green; the legacy left behind, by the Willow's fallen leaves.

He sat around the table, his back against the lake; his face was as always, nonchalant and noble, as if though unmoved by our date.

I rushed towards him, worried that I was late; fully prepared to apologise and explain, as I would have, could he only wait.

But he, he confirmed my worries with a smile and said. "You would have been ten minutes late, hadn't ten seconds remained. Luckily I told you to meet, ten minutes ahead, so there's still an hour for our date... Friend."

"Friend?" I returned an innocent smile to him, saying. "So, is that the lie that we're telling... to ourselves and them?"

He sighed for bit, absent-mindedly giving the chess pieces a toss and flip.
"Father said... if one tells a lie long enough; it becomes the truth. So I have lied to myself for three months; that a friend is all that I am to you; and you to I."

Clicking my tongue I replied. "Mon amour, that's a difficult lie; and one that I tell myself as well... my own little sample of hell."

"A friend... your friend I will be; and tell myself this lie for an eternity. So long as I can see your smile, beneath this willow tree." I said within my heart, silently.

Love is gentle.
Love is true.
Love is temptation.
Can you refuse?

The sky is a generous grey, beneath whose pending charity, sentinel palm trees stray. Whilst impetuous Atlantic gusts, act as a guide to the tourist of Saharan dust, from our heritage far away... yet unclaimed.

And so it shall remain, for domiciled within Barbados' Summer paradise; I would ask only for the rain; that it might wash these seared whip wounds of Sun's splendour... away.

The fruit trees are as my family's; their abundant branches intertwine and then once more, rewind to form a clan. Yet, their want of leaves says to all, of the prospect of Summer's well-fed famine... they had made no plans.

So, we would ask only for the rain; that it might wash away the browned chlorophyll of a cruel Summer's plague. Much like nightmares... to be preserved only within the introspective and reflective archives of Yesterday.

Upon bent knees, I humbly appeal to the Holder of Divinity - Nay! I pray, for but a half empty, half full cup of rain.

I am not afraid of the dark; nor of the many creatures that hide beneath its veil.

I dread the light, both failing flicker and spirited spark; whose existence threatens with the realisation that you are not there...

That you are but a pleasant phantom, whose sight I entertain - Beneath the warm affections of Midnight's rain.

I am not afraid of the dark, though I dread the truth; a gospel that proclaims a life without you. And light just happens to be its evidence, so within Dark's nest, I hide you.

O how sweet the taste of cavalry, where Christ the Lamp was slain for me. His hands were nailed, His brow was bruised, His feet were bind, His blood was spew. Oh how great is my due, O Lord to You, that Your precious blood was spew, my all, my all I render to you.

I pressed the knife's end against my veins, to see if it might sting the same; as when you call my name.

The blood hasn't spilled yet, yet I'm already drowning in the pain.

Words last forever once said; the past is beyond our reclaim.

I took our love to the bank, deposited it into a safe. The economy of our love is stagnant and blank, much like the look on your face.

The maintenance fees are high, they come with stress and quarrel; no goodbyes after a call. I am love's employee, both sore and sigh, I might go bald, and gladly; if our love might survive.

I took our love to the bank, and left it there. My father was frank but no doubt sincere, when he warned me: "Do prepare for the rainy days."

The greatest gift for Christmas was long ago bequeathed; given by Jesus Christ, our Lord, that all might receive. So please, accept His charity; and from sin be free... and be on this Christmas day, truly merry.

I surrender to the sound of idleness... To the predecessor of penned paper. My fine point offers no salvation from your nothingness; the ink runneth dry, unto a full-stop - threefold - my tongue teaches no testimony of your truth and trap.

No words nor worlds wherein the wide wealth of your wonders, resides; lo language and land lend and law borders, to you, the Chaotic and Disorder. Toss then them aside!

The sun set, with scarlet potential, unrealised and unmet.

As I awaited your ephemeral silhouette; the promise to be kept.

The black flower blooms;
Crimson's king, the moon turns red,
Seconds sum seasons.

Mon amour, in this room I am haunted by my cologne, that you stole and made your own; it lingers, like these feelings of you alone.

My hands ruffle the sheets; nails and fingers birth wrinkles where they meet. Though the memories of your locks between my fingers... to these I retreat; to these feelings, I fall asleep.

Pray return to my embrace, and end this eternal vigil with grace. Pray return to my arms, sound and safe; for each breath breathed without you here, is a waste.