a tendency to move around the sphere,
overhauls once inner sadness.

one has planted the seeds of laughter,
on a graveyard overgrown by reeds.

now observing them despair as
flames emerging from a sweet wine glass.

sipping on it, like a hungry child,
finding its way out of this social experiment.

indulging guilt, now as i stand,
on the velvet lace of passed times.

finally they told me to inhale wrongs,
exhaling passion for others to feed on.

no being with a heart still beating,
not i, nor you, nor the sphere itself,
should give oneself up to vagari of others.

exhale only for what melts its heart,
as a chocolate with honey melts into one's taste.

placed a heart inside a box,
box, sealed with a zillion locks.

then she went down on one knee,
with eyes closed she couldn’t see.

on her shoulder laid a sword,
she recalled the ghost of fjord,

for her journey to begin,
need she open din within.

placed a feather on that knee,
dropped her bones into a scree,

cold air breeze stayed far behind,
as her soul with stars aligned.

her heart remained inside a box,
someone took of all the locks,

on a sword he dropped a tear,
filled his hunger with a fear.

no one else but ghost of fjords, welcomed her amongst the wards.

feather fell on blood sprayed scree,
begins the journey with the sea.

Billy’s voice,
Billy’s touch,
Billy’s midnight slumber.

(he’s a reflection of what i want)

Billy’s smile,
Billy’s lips
and guess who’s got his number.

Marie, took some fresh baked goods,
set her sail through blood-curdling  woods,
in search of a one who hearts can alter.
her heart broke a man,
and so with sedan,
she seeked the one who’d scrap her falter.

to prevail over cold,
she took some gold,
to pay the one who hearts can alter.
she traveled sad,
but reached a nomad,
who claimed “i’m the one who hearts can alter.”

he was a fraud,
very sharp-clawed,
he stole her gold and then he paltered.
took his leave,
with a thieve,
after saying “Marie, your heart is altered.”

“Oh, Marie naive,
do you still grieve?”
the nomad was actually a salter,
see in this ground,
there’s not around,
a single soul that hearts can alter.

dear Susie,
i’m really sorry but i have to go.
it’s not you— oh, but it actually is.

for i loved you in the field of poppies,
all up to the moment you tasted the grey dust of a city air.

-oh, but it actually is you.

this is a darling,
to a note for self.

this marching against reflections,
might echo through the windows.