I live the life of a metaphor
Leaking out of stolen pens
I've been carved on pieces of wood
And people still interpret me differently
I choose to remain indestructible
My worth fluctuates with the readers taste
I make a difference in some places
I might just go unnoticed
Like a wilted rose and it's bleeding petals
Lying behind the window pane
I represent the spectrum
In the gray tinted universe
I'm forced into the anecdotes
In places I don't want to be
Creating a dark impression
Like a mirror in front of the wall
Mocking at its own reflection.

I've been putting them down on paper
In blue ink without a stop
My mind being the exemplary model
Hands committing the sins
I've counted the number of times
I slain the beasts on those pages
Tear the paper and throw it
Crumpled torn and frayed
With every step I take
The kaleidoscope reflects another mistake
With every ray of light disappearing
The shadows take the place
I sit back in a modest way
Greedy for the ripened fare
A sound playing at one corner of my head
Embodying cognitive dissonance
My fate is warbling
Symmetrically.

Your memory lingers around
Like the soft smell of wet earth
Like the persistence of old parchment
Of burning rubber and gas stoves
Of cinnamon and crushed cloves

I can feel you
Even in the very air
I can breathe you in
So far
Yet so close

A cold star with a fiery heart
Words like flames that rip apart
all shields of this fallen heart
Your words hang around
Unsung sonnets and sounds

I can hear you
Even in the core of my being
I can touch you
So far
Yet so close

Why can't we see beauty
In all things that die?
Is it because we are afraid
Of saying goodbye?

We see art in the leaves
That fall in the autumn
But they are dying
Descending to the bottom

And we pick flowers
For the ones we adore
And the life in that flower
Cannot be restored

So why do we see beauty
In only some things that die?
Maybe it will always be a mystery
And we'll never know why