Closure is a hoax,
it'll take lifetimes to forget you
or perhaps just the one
if I tried,
no matter what it is I do
there you are,
my subconscious bride,
closure is a hoax,
it'll take lifetimes to forget you.

Me and my beret
oh so longed
for the scent of her mane,
as the King for his Queen
atop the Dunsinane.
Disappearance of the scent
from the beret,
how hastily it went,
on your departure's day.
The return is imminent,
with one of your own
resting on your mane,
all the days I yearned
must not go in vain.

Today's age
in absolute carnage,
I dupe this reality
so devastatingly plagued,
merely to see your visage.
Your lips, your eyes,
prance freely in the scene,
a flood of tears in mine,
yet I lie still in the spillage.
this false reality so obscene,
I run for my life from him,
but he shall always intervene.

"Can't help falling in love"
the Elvis classic played
they all except you swayed,
I could tell before I held you
how heavy your chest weighed
with all your heart in it,
all your longing for him ached
thus I came to your aid,
if this wasn't dreamy for us all,
if everyone was still standing tall,
your head resting on my chest
would've heard mine
aching for you,
then the moment passed
Mr. Presley rested with his last verse,
"But I can't help,
falling in love with you."

This once I dreamed about
a rainy day in Paris,
when I saw you out of the blue
nailing the business grey,
I subtly walked across the bridge
hoping to run into you which is
exactly what I did,
sorry for the coffee spill
one can't possibly be allowed to
look that good in business grey.
With all the catching up to do,
towards a café near the tower
we made our way.
Amidst the anecodets
and the laughs,
time passed and the café
now turned into a bar,
not wanting the day to end
deep down I'd slowly pray.
Now it was midnight
silence echoing in the streets
and then came the two,
completely wasted,
wandering around and giggling away,
stopped by a bridge when you asked me
"who knew we'd meet again like this."
I replied "I knew... I knew
all along the way.",
everything that followed after this was
consequential to the beauty in this day,
That's when I woke up,
adding another one to the list of
dreams I hope turn into reality someday.

Her eyebrows
and their slow raise,
how her eyes grow big,
how her pupils dilate,
listening to me going
on and on about my trivialties.
Almost like a star
on the moon's surface,
the little black spot
on her face
above her lips
and it's slow raise,
how she smiles and laughs
like there's no tomorrow
in our days,
now all these visions are
what get me through mine,
the beauty of time.

Chaos in the chambers
echoing all over dunsinane,
the lady screams
insane and inane,
thence I flee to the forest
to lay still on the grass,
where the nightingale sings
under the moon for hours,
the lady and her raven,
they all keep mum
in this little haven.

It was all a dream?
Saving a mutt's breath
then a prolonged night
of hearing hers,
and now the night's death?
Lone cold bike rides
then her warm hugs,
and her scent on my shrugs?
When the moon made me feisty
I said how hard could the heist be
and stole the night sky for her?
feeling her hands lost in my mane,
with her and I being just the same
It was all a dream?

Gentle waves of the beach
caressing the shore,
the sun sinking into the core,
a known figure from my life's lore,
stood afore,
in this orange light
this divine body,
god's very own pottery
appears in sight.
Into each other's eyes we sunk,
like our feet in the sand's chunks
like a dip in the ocean in front of us.

Stood by the window
in the heart of the glare,
her feet bare
on the cold floor,
with a much colder stare,
there she is.

never out of words
on days it's his breath
taken away,
what else is to expect
from someone right out of
a Shakespearean play,
there she is.

Dressed in blood red
one day she'll wed,
he hangs by a thread,
the clocks may run out
he'll never be done,
every thousandth look
is the same as the first one,
there she is.

There's no god's belief
I pray to an energy,
praying that you're safe and sound,
praying for the world's relief.
Hoping his arms are warm,
ample to make you feel home,

There's one too many arms
yearning for you outside,
one of the pairs is mine,
the others are those of time,
to be blamed are the soft shackles
of your essence,
compelling all in your presence
to abide,
to your absence.

Lie in his arms before
the arms of time grapple you,
fight your love, fight for your love,
while I stand here everyday
doing the same as you,
for you,
until the end of time.

Holily they allied
emerging from the dark,
him and the thespian inside,
the groom and the bride,
so is the story arc.
they whisper and hiss
"He has no one to call his",
well the herd can't be heard
call it marital bliss.
Not with his palms,
not when knelt,
only in his heart
can the missus be felt,
compels him to think
how it must be
to hold and be held,
call it the only miss.

Take me to the cemetery
where souls go to die
may just find
the catcher in the rye,
some pass with
ashes in the sky,
while the others leave
their anatomy blind.
A saint and a muse
none of them
deserved to die,
then why
the untimely goodbye?
The saint will lie
far from resurrection,
the muse will lie
blinded by misconception,
we may never find
the catcher in the rye.

Worlds apart, cities divide,
miles of distance
but minds collide,
they were no dreams
just our own realities
for the time being.

We met indeed,
spewing out our lives
to each other,
reading all there was to read
entrapped in our eyelashes.

Deranged they called me
and every night's "meeting",
said come back to reality
life is fleeting.

Each day I flee
this alleged reality,
is proof that
my life has fleeted.

Our realities lie in each other,
with each other,
all these other ones should
stop feeling cheated.

The meadows of his visage,
soil cracking with age,
all it takes is her thought
and the meadows
cease to rot.

Each one in his dream's domicile,
tears racing down their eyes,
for the day may not be far
down the aisle,
when the prolonging dreams
and the reality blend,
and so do they, in the end.

It isn't a certainty,
but a man can hope can't he?
hope made it viable,
he made past the ordeal,
now it comes to a close,
it is but human to think
a reunion is undeniable.

Words may fall short
one seldom night,
we may never resuscitate
in this life's daylight,
should I rest this quest?
once and for all,
at my thespian's behest?
We may not come to life
a faint sense of hope stays,
may you come to, in reality,
until then it's separate ways.

The record player plays
the Vinyl of November,
the forthcoming of winter
and the apparent
festival of lights
amidst all the glow
a light shinier than the rest
radiated by this woman
draped in customary pink,
smiled like the light of a candle
lighting up the room.
A different match however
lighting up this candle,
unsettling it was to see and it still is,
but the beauty always lied
in one's being amidst the light
of this ever lit up candle.
The vinyl stops abruptly
bringing me back
to the cold dark room
as cold and as dark
as the reality has been,
neither a candle nor
a match to be seen.

Wartime looms
in my mind,
a war booms,
milady read every letter
respond to them all
before we reach our tombs,
your expressive breaths
far from being heard
in the moaning war's womb,
over the spiralling planes
and the enemy's role call,
your expressive breaths
far from being breathed
astray in this air of deaths,
the enemy's sword unsheathed.
Bright sky, night sky,
full moon, lifetimes later,
an encounter,
with no memory of the other
or how they were smothered
by the enemy who won.

Indeed a french beauté,
the most luminous of faces
and a black beret,
she paints to seize the moon
as it gently caresses the rivers,
not knowing that she herself is,
the waxing gibbous.

Our journey was brief
nearly as long as
a walk in that park
down by her place,

fleeted like the sound
of a crackling leaf,
on that roadwalk home
in utter solace,
oh how I decieve my years,
for those mere minutes,

they may be
demonic nightmares
pushing you to limits,
to me they're dreams,
worth more than
every passing wakings.

I often sit at the pavement,
tired by the bereavement,
perhaps from there
our journey resumes,
but this time
the stroll consumes,
that's how I'll go.

Thou rustling of waves
is there word for me
ensnared in thy anatomy?
Perhaps an odd bottle
with a funny smell
but doesn't stench of reality?
Perhaps a precise note or
a drenched lump of paper really.
This island sure snared me,
yet another natal day
and seconds for eternity,
thou rustling of waves,
rouse me from fallacy
when there's word for me,
ensnared in thy anatomy.

I've returned to find,
she as I knew her,
had all perished,
who is she now?
What is she now?
A state of mind?
The smell of rain
to the blind?
Or to the deaf
night stars alligned?
Her concluding embodiment
is out there somewhere,
do I look for her in it?
Who will I find?
besides a stranger,
will she still be there
enshrined?

A year ceased to the known,
crystal to each other
selves of their own,
clear as day,
but the day's long agone.
Her voice still etched in his ears,
and as it appears,
it sure won't be gone for years.
Years to come, years to go,
will there be another to the known?
each day passes in this question's wake,
another day of talking and giggling
over something his mama baked?
will there be yet another night
skinny dipping down the lake?

Blanket and black coffee
Measly morning chills,
a longing for winter enstilled,
until I met winter in person
and man is she all the thrills.
Time stops when she walks
as if it were a frozen lake,
she smiles like a snowflake
and chuckles like the sun
on a winter day,
I've met winter in person
not having one bad day
anymore.

The past fades, it must,
alas! you fade to dust,
oblivion be thy death,
you are but a phantom,
words be thy breath,
mine in writing them.

Vicariously,
you pull through,
A man merely has one
yet this one gives life to two?
One as elegant and lovely,
her immortality
deserved to be made true,
words be thy breath,
mine in writing them.

Dreams be thy eyes,
mine sinking in them,
hours, days, months,
passed and to come,
Our kin never dies,
never did, never will.

I'll return from my exile,
back on country roads
lodging in this foreign space,
another one of my "abodes".
I'll apologize for their trouble,
while the true abode
and your essence residing still
will have turned to rubble,
four walls and the roof,
embraced you in the flesh,
when even to me
they were aloof.
The bed and the pillows,
clasped you to sleep
gold brown hair all set free
years later,
it will have been buried
with your essence residing still
in the abode's dead debris.