I have two facts for you,
First, anything and everything you see, is hiding something.
A funeral of shadows lurking behind it mourning the loss of everything that for once made the dark side kiss the light, and not regret it.
Second, you need to hold some things like, a prey gripping onto life before the predator. Softly. It mustn't hurt when it leaves.

1, 2, 3.
1, 2, 3.
Stop.

I am though bound by lightning,
The one that rips liberty right off the statue,
I am though in love with the pyre,
Of your arms, melting me into you.

1, 2, 3.
1, 2, 3.
Stop.

Like, when one with sleep murdered out of eyelids yearns to write poetry, the need to birth something out of emptiness is then the noose, shrinking around one's throat, trying to force out a lullaby instead.

Like, when one with courage ***** out of his consciousness tries to play a violin of frayed frets, freedom is the abuse caged within the paper ***** thrown and made to pass through the performer's shaking hands.

1, 2, 3.
1, 2, 3.
Stop.

I am though caged by swords,
The ones that cut "fly" right out of "butterfly",
I am though set free in the meadow,
Of your eyes, burning into mine.

There in the time, were you. Burning like light and moving like darkness. For being complete is nothing less than nothingness.

Maybe the hair strands are meant to cage the breeze. It is after all not an innocent brush of a passer-by. But a gaze, burning through every book employed to cover art, and every scent used as a decoy. A drizzle of steam on a melting face. An enactment of a blatantly romanticized pull, tugging at every vein to stand out in utter disbelief, what on earth befell the first hand that touched another?

There is a breeze stuck in your hair.
"How?"
Just like a bird begging to be free, although aware that the wilderness will be its death.

Maybe cinders are what birthed most of us. And instead of being cherished, we were set ablaze. And just like a volcano, we forgot how to erupt, we found peace in drifting arms. Although somewhat boiling, we were frozen to fever.

Maybe we aren't showers and sunlight but floods and hurricanes.

I've been searching for a window to a day, when words will have faces. Smudged, smiling and shy. All I found was a peephole to the midnight, when faces won't have words.
We can but touch glass to reminisce the hand held on the bridge behind a poster promising a longer summer

My words need meaning, they said. A profound lack of lustre is ******* the verses dry. The absence of a will to not frame riddles, is murdering every blot of ink in red. A noose hangs low from the title, and reaches the name by the time the sentences end. Every word comes as a punch of flesh on stone, unnecessary. A lucky draw of words thrown about for a prize less lottery.

What is more beautiful than an autumn of mess?
More meaningful than a heartache of happiness,
a nosebleed of ecstasy, a pint of pain with gin and love?
More laborious than saying everything and nothing?

Time is a fretboard.
"How?"
When we kissed, couldn't you hear the first note of the concerto?

It's more like the anger,
The sun holds towards the oceans,
******* them dry,
Then slowly giving in.

Flickers of faceting fire,
Burning black the winter snow,
A crimson smelling attire,
Turning blemishes to bluish holes.
Just as the bullet replaced,
The thing beating in the cage,
Just as the blood replaced,
The thing breathing in the dust of age.

It's more like the greed,
A painting holds towards the notes,
What will it not give,
To be heard and written.

Bubbles of darkness at dawn,
Hunting gnats from freezing pyre,
An arrow head in the swarm,
A hum released to inquire,
Then the wind went by,
Snatching courage of bent knees away,
Then the wind went by,
Bursting dawn, dusking the song of prey.

It's more like the sleep
Seconds of seasons grew out of,
Under a canopy of camouflage,
Until it rained for a million years.