The black keys on the piano,
sung the melancholy song
that only I remembered,
along the sound of the kiss
on her voluptuous lips,
under the jittery aura of
The moon, that darkishly
lighted the trees of my lawn,
where I spent alone with her
fading memories, with the
her dried black rose,
smashed within her letters...

Sepia sheets of notes read
the blues, that rested over
corroded strings of an old
guitar with petals of roses
that once used to heal the
wet coasts of the eyes and
an unfulfilled dream of a
firm embrace, stays dusty
at the corner of my vacant
room with the memories of
the blue notes like an old,
obscured calligraphy with
the dry roses, murmuring
the tales of an old love,
penned on bits of old
and dusty sepia sheets...

To the graves, follow the roses
for the deceased, for the soul
to smile. yet it rots beneath
the mud, under the footsteps
of lives, or for lilies to
sprout sometime. Maybe for
a bug to sleep and dream
the dreams, once the dead,
wept blood and left behind.

She followed me to my grave,
to my dreams, calligraphed
on the gravestones, or
to the buried memories where,
innocent smiles unsmiled,
the head bowed to hide the
dripping tears, yet the lips,
shamed and exercised to smile.

The bug flew to her hair knot,
and pollinated her with
the shades of the dreams.
She is the painting to my
last alive grayscale dream.
Might she be the rose, that
will follow me to my verge.
Might she resurrect me and
lend me a hand. I wish
to smile and not sham. huh!
Dreams are mortal. love is not.
Might her love someday,
give my lips a reason,
to again painlessly smile...
Can I be happy please?

With every steps walked,
Every lips that kissed,
Every years that passed,
Every foot steps walked,
Every friendships made,
Every love that proposed,
Every thoughts that raced,
Every futile tears shed,

One smiles after all, as
one grew old, and the
robes smelt nursing homes,
one realized, from life,

No rose is special, if
one has bouquet full of it...

Strolling upon the dark pavements,
under the melancholy aura of The Moon,
I wander what I fear deep within me.
Is it the darkness of my soul? or is it,
the weight of the fear or the pain of
either my close ones or my friends,
or the shared stories of many more.
Is it only me with racing thoughts?
Or I race on someone's mind too?
I think not. They laugh, They grin,
Where as I drink the red off of
my own unhealed scars and
some of it spills on my small and
hardbound old sepia sheets as poetry...

Lost pieces from my heart,
and the green dry veins,
quelled  under painkillers,
yet sedated with pain itself,
by the golden blood of liquor
and the ash smokes with
the shattered whisky glass
on the marble floor, waiting
for her to wash the blood
off my feet, but to gift some,
on my pale and dry lips...

Bitter promises made with the
trembling hands that shook,
smiled with lips and teeth,
yet heart beating the eyes
to flood the parched coasts
and love was sealed with
a bond of time, some few
months to which we dealt.
Funny and shameless a
story to many, Yet dark
and sweet it is to us, cuz
some stories mean to be
only understood by some.
weeping eyes were happy
the day we both confessed,
but heart broke everytime
to recall the remaining time.

The months passed today,
the time dealt, ended.
But the hands that dealt,
didn't sign off today.
A kiss broke the promise
of a break, A new story,
a new pen, set off for,
a new voyage today...