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.

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."

Come. I can be the constancy to changing centuries; since and stagnant, by your side. I can be your touch, Tomorrow - thereafter - your view beneath the sky.

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.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days.
All of these times come, and then go away.
For some men live but a second, few a hundred years; but rest assured all return to the dust, then fade. So spends your time wisely, if just a hasty second or patience year.

"Tell me," Said the Eagle. "Can you see better than me? For even perched upon my mountain cliff, I can see the sea."

"Oh?" Said the Poet. "You have good eyes indeed. Do tell me now from your mountain cliff, what else can you see?"

"Hmm?" Said the Eagle. "I can see the trees and the many scores of fruits, hidden beneath their leaves."

"Impressive!" Smiled the Poet. "Quite impressive indeed. Do tell me now: Why you hadn't seen those two children, taunting that poor crab by the sea?"

"What?!" Cried the Eagle. "That cannot be." Refocusing his gaze towards the sea.

The Poet pointed. And over there by the trees... you hadn't seen the harvesters busy at work, beneath the leaves.

"How?!" The eagle began to scream. "Your vision poet, it's an eagle's dream."  

"Whatever do you mean? I am a poet, remember, this view belongs to only me."

"We poets have two pair of eyes, that we use to see; one for reality, and the other for dreams."

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

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.

Stone cold... these are the affection of my bed, nestled beside the fireplace, upon stone cold I lay my head; your warmth it no longer knows.

The longevity of nights have passed; now cruel and aching memories are your laughs; now, before my hearts retrieves its mask, a final kiss to you, my past.

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

This page is too vast of an estate; too generous of an allowance, for my meagre heartache. Perhaps another language would do, employing whose alien words; My heart's entirety concisely expressed in such characters, though they be but a few.

After Ten Thousand Years, what will remain; after the seas and sands have reclaimed L.A.?

When the continents don't look the same; shuffled around like dominoes, as God prepares to play another game.

Will the stars our audience stay, though we prioritise these silent spectators above our planetary play?

Then there shall come a day, when no taught tongue these words can say; lest as maxims to complement aristocratic displays. When this poem's rhythm and reason, no researcher can attain.

The Gate Wall has been long erode, rendered flat and smooth; a mat laid out upon the floor. Our precious salads' descendants, both physique and favour now wholly unknown; after Ten Thousand Years Nature's nurture will be shown.

After Ten Thousand Years, humanity will remain, and with their mortal expressions; the savagery of ten eons, nay eternity, shall be tamed.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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."

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?"

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 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.

Are you cold tonight?

Do your eyes envy the rain?

If only Noah's Flood, could wash and drown these longings all away; then I would dance with you, my love, beneath the rising waves.

Tomorrow isn't ours, but tonight, I'll message you thrice as much as I could write; of how I'd hold you closely, and closer, on another Sunday night.

I imagine you cocooned within your blanket, covered from head to toe. Your glasses are on the bedside table, frosted and clouded by the cold.

There's nothing quite like your voice, and that way that your happiness seems to flow; your heart is the thing that I want most to hold... to keep and shelter, and to share with you my own.

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."

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 had met you, quite sometime ago, now I reflect in awe in and earnest, at how the bonds of our friendship have grown.

We are well acquainted with each other's joys and sorrows - Our highs and lows. May we continue as co; passengers and drivers, upon life's lengthy road.

An ear always lent; advice offered without a cost. Truly, to have lived without knowing you or your talents, would have been my greatest loss.

Yet, my Lady is most humble; a flower apprehensive of praise. "Why are my meagre achievements deserving?" Must be the introspective question, which you so often raise. Then pray permit me, if this be the case, to spoil you upon your precious day; to tell you that you are deserving of all the spoken treasures, that this whole world retains.

My friends are numbered, so shortly... So few. Yet I am most delighted, to count first among them, You.

May God be generous and a Father unto you. And may the heavenly choirs sing now, "Bon anniversaire." to you

Tell me all of the words that we forgot. Baby, love and kiss me like you can't stop

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

The hours I counted on the clock, until the glass of milk turned cold and sour, then alone did I stop.

Perhaps to sigh, or even to weep, then returned to my vigil, to faithfully keep.

A clock has three hands, a man has two; yet not even a hundred hands may reach you.

So, O Luna, O Moon- be a dear friend and send her my affections, will you. I am waiting, my love, beneath the Midnight's moon... and biting cold winds.

Those days when you're hardly inspired, we poets have them too. When the pen pressed against the paper, no longer plays its tune.

When you silently reflect, then sighingly regret; whilst eyes are wet. " I should have done this... no I shouldn't have done that!" Pondering why and who. Then wonder no further, cause those moments you see, we poets have them too.

We poets have them too, and arguably more than you. But we poets also live to write, of the sad regrets, the lies and the truth. So, the fight to soldier on, we poets have them too. Each day we write, gripping pen in hand; to start the fight anew.

I searched for you that day... beneath clouds overcast and grey. First, to the park, where with you by my side, we had slowly walked, whilst the moonlight lit our way... but you were not there.

So I looked here, within this place, whose walls still lacked any remnant of grace; chipped, while winter-white and bare; hoping...praying to see your face, before the sun had fade.

Leaving me in a perpetual darkness, and with a perpetual question of Where.

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!

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

Both are now withered black, and dead.

Much like my love for you.

What is love and true? What is more perfect than You? The perfect Lamb, without blemish or shame, into the darkness with light, You had came. O blessed be Your sweetest name; a name at whose sounding does heal the lame. O what other given name, king's or commoner's may do the same?