Do not s p e a k
Of  c o l o r s
With that dry, patched
Mouth of yours. .
It'll sound so crisp
Enough to melt
R a i n b o w s
Into rain.

It is  a l w a y s  sad . . .

To read
Other poet's
Rhymes, about
Heartbreaks and neglects,
Felt like a burst
Of your blotting ink.

It is  a l w a y s  sad . . .

That sunburns
To a winter-frosted heart,
Exist in every soul,
That seeks for love.

It is a l w a y s  s a d . . .*

That there would
Be love,
Only meant to get,
Old and white.

I don't want
To live my life
Keeping you
I n t e r e s t e d .
and that's how
I let you go . . .
Coz   e n o u g h   occupies
A reasonable time.

The time you already
gave it your all,
But the night remain still,
And stars refuse to fall,
Where even the wonders
Of your  i m a g i na t io n ,
Sleeps without call.

When the sun sinks
I n t o   t h e   o c e a n ,
I always think
It is   c r u e l ;

To drown a ball
Of scorching heat
Is a  m u r d e r
Of one's belief.