I am a quiet, silent man,
Dwelling deep within myself.
What I long to say aloud,
I pour into a letter’s shell.

She, playful, fleeting like the breeze,
All that I express in words,
She replied with a single image,
And spoke with her eyes unheard.

How beautiful those nights once were,
What magic lived in those old days!
Today again, my heart desires
To send you a letter… always.

But this time, through an artist's hand,
This letter shall reach your grace.
Some words of the heart remain unsaid,
That only colors can embrace.

To the painter I make one humble plea
When you read my letter’s line,
Sketch her soul upon the page,
And let her truest face shine.

Let us see
If my words still hold the weight
Of truth, of ache, of silent grace.
And if she, when the artist paints,
Still wears that same beloved face...
Or was it all just well-performed
a role she played through posed displays?

The world sleeps so still,  
peaceful in its ignorance  
screams fall like petals...

Like the last time, love
Pour water in palms for me
For the last time please

O
that if I could,
I would:

Hide the moon
and the sun
in my fists.

No more lights
in nights.
No more rays
in days.

Why should the world
remain alight
when my soul
and heart
are drowned in dark?

To those
who abandon the very souls
they once vowed
to die for

hear this...

Even a flower,
plucked and dead
in your careless hand,
will gift you
its fragrance.

It does not curse.
It does not withhold.
It bleeds beauty
for the one
who tore it
from its roots.

So too
do the truest hearts,
they bloom
for their betrayers,
and love
even as they wither.

So strangely
have you stuck to my life,
you, who have gone.

Why is everything
of my life
attached to you?

Like you are
the darkness
of my nights,

and stars,
and the moon...
they must be lightless
if I don’t
think of you.