it is beautiful
it is majestic
and it is guileful
and is eccentric

a speck on the tower of wall
that bridges and connects
two different enthralls
even fate dare not object

i was on its foot,
for i sought to grasp
and tried to peek
on the place it leads

i listen to the jarring echoes
the other side is full; a chaos
it seems, but i felt solace
in its mournful yet soulful melody

i heard words that are familiar
those that i chose to blur
in my being for a long strife
that i dwell to keep inside in an eternity

i ought to release the beautiful words
that is long chained
i long to feel the majestic emptiness
and sense the other side that is zestful
and clutch onto its empathetic possibilities

only if it bridges to a multitude,
only if perspective it will connect,
only if it is not unchained,
only if it is opened.

the palette of the sky wanders
from crimson to dandelion
the waters dance by the shore
the wind sways the verdant
and hums with the breathing

it is a wondrous kiss of view
that comforts and cradles
something that we
always miss

that we are always desperate
to see, to feel
to breathe in, to keep
we click to capture it still
to yield a frame that moves
and holds life of infinite

i am filled with awe
every time i look at it,
it is heavenly—

yet we rather ruin her innate
comfort and cradling mount
to get pieces that are dull
and mundane

yet we prefer destroying
the green that shades
and shelters
to earn the green paper
so to use it later to savor
the serendipity only she can bear

bare and vulnerable
hug me til dawn

cover my flaws
caress my scars
kiss me
as if my skin is porcelain
with no lines that say i'm broken

delve yourself into me
let my heart beat for your own
as your own does for me

hand me your love
and pull my pain away
let me taste the eternity
and passionate severity

oh, please tell me
that this is not a ragged hum
of a wild beast when midnight come

tell me you love me
tell me you still love me
in spite my skin
in spite my bare being

he gave her flowers
it's the 14th of the year's
second month
at the top of the blossomed fragrance
is a note that confessed
"be mine..."

she felt something
but it is nothing as it should—
as how he had hoped it would
"be mine... again, please"
he whispered

her eyes shown colors
of miss
and of hope
"i own mine,
i already own mine"

he tried to connect
the now and the past
he gave him a song
a letter, a photo
he gave him his word,
"one last time"

she looked down
thinking, feeling
as if below lies a mirror
that reflects memories from time,
time she thought—
and hoped would last

"one last time, i gave to mine"
she appeased

he left pleading
with a heart full of crease
but she found herself in peace

a complete piece

i wonder
if those we call selfish now
are those people
unable to fill
themselves again

their souls
stretched and torn
****** out of their body

their hearts empty
by giving beyond
what it can beat

now, decaying
soulless, lifeless
empty and pleading
left with nothing

maybe trying
to restart, rebuild
refill what is now trenched
and hollowed heart

they tend
to leave more
for their own
yet receive a lash

for as it seems
trying to love
themselves
for the first time
is selfish.