A flower does not seek why it bloomed
Nor does it ask why its petals are blue;
Time under the clear sky is alive,
Weathering storms can mean something
Though they're all likely nothing
To the aster who doesn't have a midlife.

If my desire of immortality
Was not delivered on Tyche's oak desk
And my neck accepted Death's penalty,
Make my funeral transient and modest.

Do not dump me bunch of would-wilt flowers
Nor weep with salty tears upon my earth
Instead scatter me some seeds of asters
For when they blossom it is my rebirth.

Though if God of Wishes grant me this dream,
Erase my name from your reminiscence
As I have ventured out this weary realm—
I'm with the stars flaunting my omniscience.

Either way I'll try to end it laughing,
A fitting mood for my new beginning.

This moment is just a dream,
An illusion of a greater being
And once the cold death
Gave us it's warm embrace
We will fall into silence
As we wake up to see the reality.

If so, then why plague your mind with worry?
If this is just a dream, then why are you experiencing it in tragedy
When you can easily make it into comedy.

Burning desire for a flesh
Tear it apart,
Pound them hard;
Nether are screaming—
Another angel to consume!
The master is not in my skull
It is inside my pants.

O my heart is ill
It does not cough
But it does love

You see words the same way I do,
With eyes that glow in yearning,
With heart bursting at the seams—
My comrade, you are.

We traverse these dimensions
Of black and white,
Where the smell of papers
Lingers into our lives.

Each smile is a memory,
A dream or an adventure;
We have bonds beyond reality
More precious than any treasure.

It is carved deep into our marrow,
Identical to the myths that we hallow,
The moment you read any prose,
Fate binds us as fellows.

Your mind and my mind
Like God's hands they intertwined,
Creating myriads of realities
That only we could realize.

She is that flower in pinkish-red hems
Blooming amidst the silent, withered stems;
She does not need any grace of water,
But pleased to tears that have fallen over

My hand trembles, I cannot pluck her roots—
She's too precious to be in worn-out boots;
Though it hurts, I'll hope there's a gardener
Who'll place her where light shines a bit kinder.