I walk in the cold and the snow kisses my face while the breeze makes love to eyes tired of staring into the sun.

I walk in the cold and the silence of unpeopled streets whispers tunes of frozen myths about love and mystery and my ears blush.

I walk in the cold and it bites my red nose as it inhales perfume of chill and smiles.

I walk in the cold and the cool wind waltzes with my red hair on symphonies of crisp snow flakes falling on the ground.

I walk in the cold and my breaths escape as white waves crashing into the emptiness of piercing ice.

I walk in the cold and the cold walks in me.

Falling in love is mutilating and murdering yourself.

Sharing your love is carrying the dead body, showing it off, all around.

For God’s sake, burn the book or leave it on its shelf.

Or at least hide that horrendous corpse; bury it underground.



But it’s a ****** cemetery, this witty world is.

Every one bragging of decomposed dirt.

Yours surely is more rotten than his.

So smell the rot, you asinine little flirt.



Life should come with a warning label.

WARNING: DEAD BODIES EVERY WHERE.

Ironic, to be born on a doctor’s table.

Then die, massacred in deathly affair.



But we can’t live without love, it’s hilariously tragic.

For death lurks, immortal, in our hearts.

Yet our minds, gullible, believe it’s magic!

Beware, beware of Cupid’s darts.



**** it up, Romeo, move on with life.

Cleanse your soul; stop being sadistic.

Sure it’s beautiful, but not when she’s your wife.

It’s a dead body, you’re stupid and unrealistic.

Poetry fails me. And I it.

Love has torn me. The final bit.

No longer human, no longer sane.

You dug the grave; a hellish pit.



You named it love. You drank the dirt.

Called me a lady; groped for my skirt.

But a fantasy’s a fantasy and we die.

I am ugly but so is your shirt.



Dry a dream. Fry a heart.

A mind atrophic; a lonely start.

Live in a corner and die a hero.

Save yourself; you’re so smart.



Poetry fails me.

And I it.

Open your eyes.

It’s not rain, it’s spit.

I need to leave this place.

They call it hell sometimes

Or life.

Infinite. But I need more space

For creativity; some deadly crimes.

One knife.

Impossible. Our vomiting human race.

Bloodsucking; it slimes.

Our wife.

I need to rip my face.

Your poem never rhymes.

My strife.

The slow broken time

makes you think why

would one wake up if

morning is not free

from the night



Only yesterday is born

into this ghost

of a universe that

never asks for

our dance

desire to know like

God



We haunt out the

present to explore

question

foolish like laughing

but sadly and as

you see



Most seep away

down with deep ocean

as sacred prisoners

in darkness

like men



A breath

The sky was falling

But they were still flipping coins around

Their mother calling

But they were still lost and never to be found



It was a world of their own

It was their home

It was a world of their own

It was their Rome



At Rome where films sparked from their fingertips

And paintings splashed from their minds

Where everyday was lunar eclipse

And in the moon there he finds



Her caterpillar, her centipede

Of hundreds of untold stories

And so inside he was freed

Of glorious past and past glories



And there she goes

Climbing the mountain

And there he goes

Waiting at the fountain



They meet and leave

And say profound things

They dance, believe

They are the kings

Of their Rome (x3)



And the sky fell

Their coins were in the air

Dancing as well

To the things they share

Of their days at Rome

And of their home

When mother was still calling

Them.

By the graves of the young

The leaves fall slowly and afraid

Of disturbing the love and peace

And the dust and wind who prayed



The sun shines softly upon

The epitaphs of the brave

Who chose to smile

While their memories fade



The earth embraced the bodies

Of the truthful and the martyr

Whispering “a few moments left”

For the day to be made



The young and the brave

The truthful and the martyr

Lie side by side beating

Listening to the next grenade