Red roses bring joy to our eyes,
Orange juice to quench our thirst,
Yellow sunshine fills our skies,
Green countryside in summer burst,
Blue is the feeling of our broods,
Indigo ink flows into writing,
Violet tastes are sweet and smooth,
and rainbows are exciting.

A curse on glass, as it reflects true time,
and when we look we see life in decay,
a path ensures our ultimate decline,
the ticking clock that never will delay.

And so we try to cheat the image shared,
conceal our age, adorn our fake façade,
behind the mask the clock is still prepared,
to **** our time with its cold disregard.

No mirror can reflect the inner soul,
where timeless words are written on a page,
unique is ev’ry footprint on our stroll,
like great philosophers, we never age.

The clocks preserve the moment we embark,
reflections mean that we have left our mark.

Vapours of scents,
Lunar crescents
Of words in amber -
Photons arise  
In monochromatic
Moments of time.

Static sounds
Of nebulous breathing,
Neurotic crowds
Of memories weeping
Between scratched walls,
And monochromatic
Moments of time.

There are rows of black birds
flying above us,
my love...
Away to foreign warm places
leaving no memories or traces -
There are rows of black birds above.

There is a strong, cold wind
howling and rowing ahead us,
my love...
The echo of a new harsh winter
like an unseen bitter creature
filling the gaps between us -
There is a strong cold wind ahead.

Am I entitled call you 'my love'?
This autumn feels too cold,
too empty to bare
this bare emptiness -
These gaps between us
like black doves
too bold and unreal to hold.

There are rows of black birds above.
They shall never see each other's faces
as they fly to foreign warm places,
While Autumn and Winter align,
without any traces
of you

We cannot write silence.
The beats.
The pause.
The breath.
The way it aches
and persists

and begs that,

if only for a moment,

our consciousness is only a whisper.
our bodies,
our lips,
the air that passes through falling chests
and stillness.

A melody of emotion.
Sleeping in the quiet of a heartbeat skipped
a word lost to the wind.

The wickedness of reticence
Encapsulated in air and time.

The moment stretched too long.
Hesitation perpetuated in the grip of fingernails
pressed into palms.

We cannot write silence,
but we can try.

to find a way to immortalize emotion
to create space
in the ceaseless drone of words that speak and spin.

I cannot write silence. But I can write
tears and years
and the burn of long-stretched lies.

I can write goodbyes and hellos
And dozen ways to say
I love to hate you
Or
I hate to love you
and sometimes
I cannot tell the difference.
Silence.
The space I have upheld for myself.

I love to hate you
Heart.

I hate to love you too.

I cannot write silence.
But I know it.
and I have held it in my hand.