...
One day
When all events will be finished,
Then you will see
Over and over again
Is this why the door closed,
By that time the window next to
The road is full of trash

Little by little
I will be almost removed
From your mind
Then Red Sun will be appeared
In a new horizon,
The birds will sing the same as before
You will laugh
For some reason mystery

Flowers will be dancing
Before you
You will be singing with someone
Highborn
Moonlight will brighten
Your night
And your Sky will be filled with
Full of dreams

But then you will not feel the,
Moonlit wet night
As your first feeling flourished
Like a Red Rose,
Either an Evergreen Love Song
Or As a Romantic Poem,
Hold your hands in a way
That will be mystic wandering

Remember My Darling,
And then I will exist
Thousands of Millions of miles
Away from you,
As a Bright Star
Will be burned myself
And be Fallen as dust
On your Eyes-
...
@ Musfiq us shaleheen

One of the basic concepts of art
Is that within every creation lies
Fundamental shapes shepherd by an
Organic compiling of lights and darks  
Bending to formulate shadowed tales.  
Stories. Myths. Epics.
Triangles and circles rest undisturbed
Scattered rhythmically like smooth curves
Contouring to the whims of the dance...
Yet, when infusing detail into mapped
Shapes, the stories are no longer the same.
Haunted and forsaken.

But still, such a delicate face hearkens my
Pencil to life.
My fingers, to smudge these fine lines
Drawn into the organic creation that is you:  
A lovely imperfection.

However, I never seem to get this line correctly.

They say one cannot read in their dreams,
But I've done it.
Saw each word vivid as vivid as I know
Dreams to be livid and lucid armored
Inventions of deeper realities combating for
Essence in action. In motion. Awake. Again.
My eyes tumbling down like mounds of sand
When the wind blows searching for crevices to settle in
And marginalize and quantize the space between
Reason and faith.
Touch and sound.
But I dreamt words. Again.
Are they yours or mine?
It tasted of sorrow
-as do all words already do-
And each form of noted thought was clear, but faded
With each new word formed aloud by the voice
Suddenly questioning the vestiges of the unspoken hum...
But for the first time someone answered.

But who?
Was it I who read?
Was it I who questioned?
Was it I who wrote?
Was it I who answered?

Was it I?

Either way, it is still yet I who is
Bound to unknown tethers,  
Arrested to both spoken and unspoken words,  
Wasting away trying to remember  
The answer.  

Weary.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.