Deep into the midnight
below the gleaming star,
I stepped on the running wall — the creation of Nirvana,
lights.

Heaven's an enigma
a forged between the steely and the curve
the star's collision and the minor parts
have the iciest heart — a grain of Truth.

Prophesy the future,
shuffle the sheets
and let them look at
your eyes — does it carry the dullest truth?
Or a blundered ignorance?

Does the dawn of the newborns
form the hallowed mysteries
of heaven's plea?
Into the Unborn
where the sky holds a mere certainty.

You climb long — to match the moon's faint
and the beaming sunlight;
where the galaxy
was just as narrow
as the strange fragments
of what we see?

Then if beneath us was the roaring storm,
will it expose the unborn?
Will the dream catch us
when we fall asleep?

Into the future.

Darkness.

It was a surly heart
that I received through
the facades of this place
where I could no longer
feel the intensity
or the port thins
in Hummingbird.

The pavement.

From where I reach
the households that were lively
as it is,
now is just a muffled
lullaby, not wanting to be heard.

For once, I knew,
we are the shambles
we let them in
we let them see
until now we follow
I could not find the dimmer.

The light.

Has gone through
the running walls of this world
the pit was so deep
ghosts passing
tireless and ageless
lost for once again.

Ghosts.

From where they are reborn
into the blackness
where the void remains
an imagination
a fantasy where the minds
tackle for the parallel,
from which they waver and perish,
an ambush.

Singularity.

Now I drift and ramble
till I picked up the ticking second
falling from the top
from when it lost me,
'tis now the moment to be created again.
When a soul is fallen,
that is when he is found.

Vigorous colors.

Memories of warmth colors
bringing back the place
of yearning,
back then is only a muffled lullaby,
now is a peeking peekaboo!
If uniqueness as it is
and that later than mortal
is now a vital colors
glowing as it is —
in the pavement of Hummingbird.

I was glancing sideways when my eyes caught you, I told to myself, “You
have your picks” you were so perfect like a classic portrait displayed in
a museum, a frail mirror revived at its subtlest; thus are driven
ravishing, a portrait lost in the sea.

That's when I found you, just someone I acknowledge. We stroll past each other, thought of
something, typical. Little did I realize, the man so stiff, when he sits wearing some thick eyeglasses; a strange passion, that's when I grasped, I will write you. And when I can't hit any key when I sing, in Minor D I run. You were a brooding light, a faint kiss of sweet melody ringing in my piano keys. When I sing, you sit there in silence and I speak the words and you listen to the tone.

For the first time, a man I know nothing at all, just a civil smile you put on to some pictures, I noticed you were 'something', seen. In nights where no stars appearing, when the moon was sheltering behind the mists, when the midnight so deep appeals bleaker than I expected — isn't it shameful that I figure out of how alluring that grin of yours, while I look at myself, and see,

that we will never cut across the same route, to reach through something remarkable? That I feel this electricity inside, while yours are just functioning?

The Infirmity of Life, I guess.

Distinct shades of hues — stood the same
as the pitch-black dusk
takes place into the steel cage,
it dooms her life — a tale of desolation.

A series of the cynic
seeking through — peeking eyes
hushed lips,
here comes despair.

Painted words
by her — another form of scars
wrestled and won
of newness
and fondness
of her secrets
and her sins — are like faces
from a covered haze.

Shredded reputation — stop!
“It will never settle.”
She will strike once again
her vulnerability — remains concealed:
it must preserve her.

“It will never end.”
As she sips from the twists of her
remorse,
though she buries
her facade.

“End her.”
Hailed by her,
while she seeks for
another shade of colors — thus lead her
of another yet
the flicker of the sun.

“It will work out, I believe so.”

I woke up from my stupor
of thoughts
where I bathe from the floods
of my own thinking and logic,
heard his knocking
heart and sang
just the lullaby,
merged with a stroke
of something,

I couldn't avoid
it wears me out
but I can't stand myself
from winding and running
into the land
where I can watch him
and see him
and hold him
and embrace him.

His divine voice
woke me up from my stupor
of thoughts
of my retired song
of my regrets
of my dying requests.

Oh, to discover him
near and down below —
oh, to meet him
and trace his palms
wriggling to get
my face — my eyes,
and feel him in me.

Following me
in another portal of my realm —
were his sole sound
I could tune in
and familiarize;
in the celestial music of his heart,
I can pick up my way back.

The sky holds its truth — as I stomped my feet
and let my cold eyes burn
into the windowpane
I realized,
they have my mysteries.

Shadows were occurring through,
conscious of my becoming —
demons were shrieking,
“Hail! Laud be to the desert god!”
I couldn't keep up anymore.

Dusts were stirring;
spider's web untangling,
they have my secrets.

Yet they stood hushed.

I did it again, did I?
All my sins showing
like a clog stink
I perceive,
the shadows screamed,
“Laud be to the desert god.”

Her face formed from the wetness of my sins,
showing me
of whom I have:
grow into and to be gone.

Hail you, hail you.

The windowpane
drew me back
to its torture,
begone now,
for I have descended from grace.

I am now a fallen angel.
“Begone now, hail you.”
They cried.

The sky holds its truth — all my secrets been dropped long,
but since then, they howled,
resurfaced from the deep hole.

I am frightened.
Begone now,
begone.

Where are you?

I am in the midst. Of nowhere and of mislaid sanity. I am frightened of who I am becoming into, plunged in Iliad.

Where the sequence of misfits and my torments combined, I am crucially breaking my existence. Broken, who am I pursuing? sparkling eyes, igniting palms they were showing tricks on me.

They were here watching me. They outgrow wings like a slipped angel descended from grace. Their eyes glittering into mine. Slowing ticking blasts, so I'd still have time to endure every bleeding and the state of my miserable hovel.

Where are you?

I am in the midst. Of being lost and being formed. I am in the pilgrim of my dreams — a wayfarer in the desert.

“Where the shore clashes and the stallion whimper at the sprinkle's coolness, I will get you there.”

I am a sightseer on the spot — where the faint could not be obtained as I stray and travel, I knew this is who I am developing into.

To discover you in the forsaken as a wayfarer in strange seasons. A tourist ahead of time, a butterfly in the coming age.

A warrior in the cage, a threat to them the shadows in the deceased.

“Where the shore clashes and the stallion whimper at the sprinkle's coolness, I will find you there.”

To meet you is to be lost.
To be created is to be miserable.
Being whole is to be broken.

And there, I found you.