There she was
Walking in the light
Disguised as an angel
Near the lake
Of shining waters
While her hair
Smells like an old flower
In the moonlight

There she was
Peeking through your dreams
While you close your eyes
In her lullabies

There she was
Singing in the light
Like an ocean's roar
In the night

Close your eyes
She's now leaving
In the quiet sound
Of the night

Close your eyes
She's an angel in disguise.

The night has begun —
she dashed into the crest
of the woods
where the branches would clank together,
forming an echo of suspiciousness —
silence cannot be suppressed.

Through the drifting moon — the stars tracking her every stride
into the broad peak of the unknown,
somehow she can inhale in the black.

“Hello, which pathway will you pick up?
Can I tour with you?

She cried out.

“I don't want to be alone.”

The trees floated on the flicker of the breeze — granting her the direction
that she desires — somehow,
she realizes she is not alone.

You are the snowflake
in the buoyant afternoon
where you fade away still,
when I look at you,
pure like a waterfall.

It crashes and I can grapple the sound,
the continuous wave where
the titanic lies down with its
thousand sweet ghosts dancing into waltz
and where the water's steep falls
deep down and deep
and beneath.

You are the snowflake
in the crisp of December
where you turn into a delicate sixfold symmetry.

Where you were as remarkable as white
and bright like the bustling car rides and bus stops
where even the coldness can be someone's warmth.

In every season there's you,
different from time to time
still, when I look at you,
you are as graceful, majestic
for the weather to cast its rain.
Forecast, bluer than the usual;

And when I look at you,
you will always be
the snowflake that melts
in the sunny afternoon
and a delicate sixfold symmetry
in the winter of December.

Where are you?

I am in the midst. Of nowhere and of mislaid sanity. I am frightened of who I am becoming into, plunged in Iliad.

Where the sequence of misfits and my torments combined, I am crucially breaking my existence. Broken, who am I pursuing? sparkling eyes, igniting palms they were showing tricks on me.

They were here watching me. They outgrow wings like a slipped angel descended from grace. Their eyes glittering into mine. Slowing ticking blasts, so I'd still have time to endure every bleeding and the state of my miserable hovel.

Where are you?

I am in the midst. Of being lost and being formed. I am in the pilgrim of my dreams — a wayfarer in the desert.

“Where the shore clashes and the stallion whimper at the sprinkle's coolness, I will get you there.”

I am a sightseer on the spot — where the faint could not be obtained as I stray and travel, I knew this is who I am developing into.

To discover you in the forsaken as a wayfarer in strange seasons. A tourist ahead of time, a butterfly in the coming age.

A warrior in the cage, a threat to them the shadows in the deceased.

“Where the shore clashes and the stallion whimper at the sprinkle's coolness, I will find you there.”

To meet you is to be lost.
To be created is to be miserable.
Being whole is to be broken.

And there, I found you.