How naïve was I?
To think that I could cease bleeding-
Bleeding into words like it healed me somehow.

How I thought the warmth of love would stitch the pieces of my heart,
And my heart would stop bleeding sad poetry like it used to.
But it did.
It stopped long enough,
False promising a forever.

But how naïve was I?
To think that I could go much far from home-
Far from the comforting grasp of my anguish tearing into black inks of beautiful despair.

Sun goes down the littoral,
Painting shadows on the sky.
If skies could tell stories,
Tonight it's telling mine.

The orange molds memories,
Language of love,
Beautiful stories,
But swiftly slithering to mauve.

The vast blue says torment,
Rivers I've cried,
Sleepless nights,
Tears that have dried.

But when the blue will turn black,
It'll scream pain.
As the memories erase,
Loving I'll forsake.

It was today when I realized. .  . I "actually" realized, how unpredictable life is. How you could leave behind your loved ones, incomplete dreams and life that someone dreams of, in the fist of life and step in the darkness of death.  
Death petrifies me. Because, while the people who dearly love you and the people who are expecting to be saved by you, suffer with unbearable pain of your loss, you will feel nothing; no sadness, no happiness, just numb. That just feels self-centered even if it is not one's fault.
Perhaps, death is not as dark as we say it is.
What if, death is tranquil. A place were you can't feel anything, but peaceful. Away from you happiness and worries, cradling in serenity...

A modeled body,
beautifully curved,
Her ballerina pose,
reaching for the stars.

Her branches,
oh! so poise,
swirls with the breeze.
A breeze carrying-
Dreams of a slumberer,
desires of a lover,
grief of a melancholic
and words of a poet.

She takes it all in with a whiff.

Through her veins,
these stories find their way to ravine of leaves,
to bloom like a coryphée.
Until thunder of senility hits her,
And she melts into her home;
merges with the soil.

Some dreamy like starry skies,
Some shiny like fire flies,
Some visionary like poetry,
Some breathe aggressively.

Memories, that's what they say,
They are footprints of yesterday.