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Jan 14 · 588
Hazel Eyes
Mellow sunrised.
The dew of the afternoon high light.
Paradise sunset.
Tuscany, Marigold, Chartreuse, Caramel.
Amber, Copper, Olive, Saffron.
Honeycomb mystery of rejection... or doubt.
Freedom sparks; feet and hip dilate and constrict; lips close to feel the colors and open again, blinking to suffocate the oasis into the dull reality of smog and soot, of cemetery.
The psychedelic picturesque star stares back, dusk-like fireworks of heaven gained and lost.
One second that sealed his fate.
Death will be hazel eyes.
This is an extra poem I wrote after finishing my anthology, trying to explore a new style of poetry of almost pure imagery and sensory information.
Jan 14 · 565
The Heart’s Betrayal
Out of deep sorrow for the loss of my muse
The machine stops to recapture its stasis
Stolen by the unrequited idea of this mirage,
The scarlet tic toc craves pristine amuse

The pump of the sweet amorous concoction
Tastes **** to the disused forlorn tongue
Maybe the machine leeks this viscous fluid
To purchase desire at the body’s auction

This nature’s request for the suitable mate
While the soul of the failure still remains,
Cranks the contraption most vital gears
As a mismatched tic toc at hearts gate

The betrayal of knowing the truth and never
Ever leaving the past wholly shatters me
The Sunlover wants to bloom when the light
Shines darker than the doubt of forever

That is the heart’s betrayal

Viewing the sunrise through my wasted eyes
unfold as the tears of my broken dreams,
I remember the beauty of my dear beloved
The ultimate ambush to my lonely skies

The hangover of rejection lingers for eternity.
The addictive touch of tenderness I want
While the robot engines cannot cope with it,
The tired heart goes for failed shot infinity

What is this web which I was woven into?
Falling for eight, then nine, bonus ten
Tic toc the clock; pump, pumped the blood
Wild need, whispers required to ensue

And whilst I dig the grave where I shall lend
Haunting me is the ever burning question
Will ever the craving for love be truly done?
Hope is said to never falter, to never end

That is the heart’s betrayal

The never ending brush of desire swirls
A portrait of novel passion; her soft
Features, angelic voice, immaculate lips
And this issue prevails with all the girls

In the mind’s museum, they become a bust
Of hard intangible romantic interests
And as a collection vice, the gallery will not
Stop letting in more miscellany of lust

Appreciating the astral beauty, bemusing  
In the details, worshipping personality,
Requiring such unity to expel the loneliness
This hearts motives forever bruising

The interest in a woman thus take shape
To form the most ethereal phantom
A ghost that results in dreams of icy mist
A myth of warmth, fleeting escape

That is the heart’s betrayal

Once betrothed to be my suitable mate,
Wishes my dream fairy granted me
Far and wide we would venture, brave souls
Only in my fantasy, this surreal bate

Thus, the later ultimatum comes unexpected
When company the moment yearns
This muse’s portrait matures into sorrow
We were genuinely never connected

The cold from this epiphany ardently churns
The blood that petrifies the machine
“She is not the right one,” an echo of misery
Even if elusive, she hurts me; it burns

Passion may come and go, a scar of flare
A tempest of feelings of the unruly kind
The spark is a mystery to solve, misguided
The hurt of a hollow kinship and despair

One day the soul its mate will find, the heart
Will have a home to call in the light
But now the frozen pump in darkness lingers
Waiting the mistake of love to depart

It all goes back to the beginning

And that is the heart’s betrayal
The last poem of my original anthology had to be its namesake. My nature was to love, get rejected, love, lose that person, love again, be rejected, and on and on in an uncontrollable and destructive cycle. It had to stop, so I had to finally understand what was happening to me and translate those impetuses into words. To do so was to acknowledge all the pain and distress of loss and rejection, and for a long time, I just could not do it. Poetry helped me open up and learn about myself. So, this was actually one of the first poems I ever wrote. The sense of cyclicity that flows through and ends the poem makes rereading the whole collection a new experience. All the pieces inside of it have something to do with how the heart, in all its emotional saliences, controls people's every thought, even when we think we are in control. We can love, hate, fear, yearn, and at the same time, not want it to happen. Nonetheless, the heart will betrayal our countenance, our adamancy, our will to resist within different degrees. So, to feature all these ideas sprinkled throughout the anthology into one poem was the best way to end it.
Part I
The night, no moon in the sky
The wind, full force as to fly
The cold, as to numb the blood
The trees, shadows the vision flood
The night, dark blue in the water
The wind, of rose is the howled attar
The cold, close to freezing the lake
The trees, static dormant to a shake
The night, solitary is the dark
The wind, momentary is its mark
The cold, nearly settled is the doubt
The trees, silent is their spout

The night, the wind, the cold, the trees

A Swan glides with an asynchronous thread
Feathers in the umbra, the heart partly dead
He has lost his dearest, his alluring arch
Spring isn't coming, no September or March
Once there was another swan
To make the lake shimmer with dawn
Their courtship was the core of the pond
A rare gem of opal coloured their bond
Unlike gems, though, be crushed love can
And it was time's deed right there and then
She now is in a new safe haven
And left was him with an egg of a raven

In the midst of this midnight dreary
The Swan was forlorn and weary
But the clouds of metal became of cotton
The grey marsh sudden, was brief forgotten
A shred of light, two lions glowed
Their manes of fire their passion showed
"What a scene" the Swan had thought
"That's the fervor my heart had sought
Forever bound by a curse of ice
I am void and there's no price
To unlock me from the eternal dream
And let me find my lion gleam"

Still, the sky is yet so white
And the past gloom cannot him fright
At his right the Swan stare
Intrigued by the unceasing flare
A piglet and a spider, what a scene
Why are they ringed by a sheen?
In the night, they play like friends
Fight, discuss and make amends
A web of favours and support
Parades of gratitude are never short
"Oh, is it fondness what I am lacking?
Is this why I am ever cracking?"

Now the display is certainly over
And the Swan hopes to find his clover
No more than ever he is so keen
To live anew and be serene
The night enjoys the happy mood
And let the moon stop its brood
The clouds, at once, no more than mist
An ethereal cast, will this be a tryst?
The moon glitz on a past reflection
A female black swan of mystic complexion
An owl hoots afar and is dismissed
As the hero sings after being kissed:

"Where have you been, my dove?
Why did you leave, my love?
I was so lost in here
Without your voice to hear

Without you to kiss me
Without you to bliss me
I was just a shadow
Missing the rain and the rainbow

But now I can see life
And each thing is so rife
I will give you my heart
So we won't fall apart"

Part II
Night, the moon is sublime
Wind, tame like no other time
Cold, feeble against heart's motion
Trees, mere pawns in this ocean
Yet silence cannot much contain
The disturbing growls of owl disdain
It thrives with strength, to fill the lake
To **** the love and pleasure take
The Swan, still, has just eyes... no ears
So to halt death from ousting his tears
Joy runs his body with iron vigor
His love denies dearth of such rigor

The courtship swims with celestial sync
In an opal ballet of black and white ink
Lastly, his arch the Swan can complete
With a dubious promise of endless heat:
"Our past is antiquity and shall be erased
The future, fertile, a wish to be chased
Let us embrace and with nature be one
Me and you, the rest will be none.
Though, I will only expect your happy devotion
No fear, no sadness, no other emotion
You are my minion, and mine in exclusive
Is this what you craved in your hope elusive?"

The Swan is soon hesitant of the deal
His novel grasp masks her appeal:
"Your words of ice burn down my feathers
Your crooked intentions prevent us together
I was foolish in you to trust my belief
Your offer won't stop my desert, my grief
Love can't ever be monochromatic
Yes, there are moments one's ecstatic
But endless joy is not the way
It will prevent freedom and will me betray
The value of love is shallow without anguish of partition
The bones of love are brittle without a conflict's remission"

The eyes of the black swan fumes in red
The clouds, the moonlight they shred
A tempest thunders over the misty lake
Out of the haze, the bird is now a snake:
"Your faith is missplaced in a callow profile
Your passt came closse to you beguile
You think your luck in love issn't departed
But you are full of sself-pity, fainthearted
Honesst love iss the piercer of my power
And IF you find it, I will to you cower
Yet you have nothing; you're dessperate for ssomeone
Had welcomed the deal, you wouldn't be undone"

The water spreads cold with every heartbeat
The quick rime sings Swan's defeat
The snake reveals its fangs of ink dark
And bites the Swan, a sanguine red mark
All seems lost to this tragic hero
A heart's betrayal in the absolute zero
Until a hoot echoes through the trees
And the bird finally the owl sees
With claws of steel, the snake it slashes
In response, lightning flashes
It breaks the ice and the reptile sears
The Swan is now saved, but not from his fears

A boy wakes up in a nice little room
With a painting of the lake and a flower in bloom
A bee buzzes around about the place  
And in the White Rose, lends with grace
Both make a sound akin to a chatter
They seem happy with their talking matter
The angered boy, annoyed by the insect,
Into the painting, the bee he projects
With a new aspect thrown away
He burns down reality's display
And when a dove finds its way out
The man its wings brake and his out route
This poem tells the story of a forlorn Swan that finally finds his true love but ends up discovering she is an illusion of his own desperate desires. It is divided into two parts as this is a large poem that features two different sets of struggles: finding happiness for yourself while everybody around you seems to have already found their answers, and learning that falling in love with anybody solely because of loneliness and desperation is not healthy in the long run. The poem transforms the speaker into a Swan and ends with an ambiguous point where it is unknown if the Boy is real or if the Swan is actually the real version of the Boy. Or maybe it is left ambiguous if the emotional events of the anthology have left the speaker confused about what is real and what is a dream (is the dream the reality he wants to exist in?), and now he needs the face this new reality he is in instead of dreaming about mystical animals, storms, and flowers.
Jan 14 · 419
The Irony of It All
"Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens."
- J.R.R. Tolkien


The irony of it all is the loneliness of a star.
Not noticed in the nebula, she glances from afar.
At her neighbor’s neglect, even in nature of quasar.

The irony of it all is the silence of the owl.
A lot in the gloom it used to hoot and growl.
Prior to the onslaught of looks with a scowl.

The irony of it all is the frostiness of the blaze.
A fire that only freezes surrounds me in haze.
My friends, the flames, their stare a cold gaze.

The irony of it all is a bird that wants a cage.
Astounding is the absence of his own faith and sage.
To acquaint with his habitat, he is afraid to engage.

The irony of it all is a knight with no one to save.
To issue a kind aid, insignificant it is to crave.
So the importance of his ideal is dug into a grave.

The irony of it all is an unbreakable heart.
Tired of trying, it is an insatiable art.
That Heart’s betrayal splits the soul apart.

The irony of it all is the kissing of the hated.
Love was hostile, but the exes again dated.
And my heartbeat for her was hasped and gated.

The irony of all ironies, a phantom of tangibility.
Roaming amongst humans, champion of inutility.
Is the ghost of an emotion, the dust of heart’s fragility.
This is the first poem of the fourth chapter and it starts this last section of the anthology with a somber tone and a tight structure to reflect the ghost aspect of the speaker, bound to be unseen by the people around him and emotionally and psychologically unable to free himself from the prison he and others put him into.
Jan 14 · 364
Water Under Ice
Flowing under winter
Is the warmth of a fading love
That once was on the surface
But now struggles to be shone

Cold hearts once bled red
Broken, they needed repair
Grey was too stiff for the aching heart
So blue was the color of the broken part

But Jotunheim and its giants can be melt
By the prowess of Asgard and its heroes
As the icy, depressive cover has formed
After the heart had been healed

So, many times passion becomes a fuel
To extinguish the fear of the person who never knows
And this gas perpetually ignites
And the water that once thawed the rime
Won’t remain covered, buried under ice

That is why love always resurfaces
With the heat of hope and will
Querying if the person the heart beats for
Doesn’t has her beating in sync, still

But like a snowflake, love falls in pieces
To find a place to regrow, as fear overpowers the fuel
Where memory and reluctance troubles the loving soul
While life seems dull to his aching state, as time never ceases

My appreciation for her burns wild
Maybe its youth that feeds the flames
Or the personality bonded to her beautiful name
But, which is enough to love her, the air that I inhale
Will soon be few as I drown in the water, doubting if “we” will ever be true
As the last poem of the third chapter, it establishes the war between love and hopelessness the speaker is caught between after his misadventures with Rose, Violet, and Obsidian Eye. Will his heart freeze solid? Or rather, can his heart become icy cold?
Jan 14 · 351
Lost Girl
To the once blooming violet, is it true?
Will she succumb her petals to the burden of time?
Will I be witness to the ripples of this crime?
Is the storm to drown her in skies darkened blue?

Why is the savior the one to endanger?
Why is the heartsease the one heartbreaker?
Why is the kind spirit the true soul shaker?
Why is my best friend to become a stranger?

How can she lose against the clutches of temptation?
When was the divine cursed with humanity?
How could the listener speak with inanity?
When was our friendship twisted into damnation?

Will an invasive **** be victorious in his heist?
Is the **** to convince her of his illusive might?
Is he ******* her salve, to my abysmal fright?
Will I rot of envy from the disgraceful tryst?

Why is life’s story a destiny written in stone?
Why can’t I change the demise plagued within?
Why should her scent become my eternal toxin?
Why shall it degrade me from my flesh ‘til my bone?

How was I yearning for the bliss of her design?
When was I seeded with this addiction?
How was it dreamt into endless affliction?
When did Violet and Lost Girl begin to intertwine?

Epilogue:
And did the lost girl tiptoed through the darkened fields?
Was her in search of the warmth of the sun’s yield?
Did she reach the water? Was it her escape?
Was a giant lily in the wait?
Was it a doomed attempt? No heat, no win?
Were her burdens too heavy? Did she sink in?
And forever bound, was this betrayal to restrain her way?
Or was it a promise of the past to save her day?
A poem made of questions...and an epilogue? Well, I tried something a little bit different here. The questions mark my confusion as to how someone I once called a friend began ignoring me and decided to abandon me after she began dating another person. I saw a change in her personality that made me crackle with abashment. It felt like she had never been candid with me. Still, as the epilogue shows, I sensed a glimmer of hope, and when I gave her this poem, we were finally able to talk about our relationship.
To the prayers who mourn
and to the mourners who pray
To ‪the seekers‬ of faith
as to believe, warmth bring it may
To the souls of whom sworn,
an anguish of grief with ceaseless wraith

Here forth in this unholy grave
Lies the spirit of your salvation

To the lovers who dreamed
and to the dreamers who loved
To the cosmic pairing
as toys the void the fair beloved
To the sole swan, by time, seamed,
an ache of lost mesmeric sharing

Here forth in this sterile grave
Lies the body of your gestation

To the good memories
And to memories of good
To the aether of life
as a ghost encased in soft wood
To the shared old stories
an amusement of cuddles and strife

Here forth in this forgotten grave
Lies the mind of your foundation

Even when darkness raises a wall
(This snake of hope with fangs of fear)
Light shall always scorch with white
(This dove that dazzles with hearts resilience)
Sorry that the fire blazed not the dark,
But charred Faith, Love, those Memories...
And all is lost in ashes of sorrow,
And all is drowned in my silent tears

They won't come back, I won't climb up
Death, this closed door, it's complicated
This poem marks a turning point for the speaker's emotions and the first piece of the third chapter. He reached a relative maximum high, and now everything will go downhill.
“Why did you do this for me?” He asked. “I don’t deserve it. I’ve never done anything for you.” “You have been my friend,” replied Charlotte. “That in itself is a tremendous thing.”
- E.B. White Charlotte's Web

Blooming violet, ghost
Of the blonde sun.
Beauty of contrast.
The sun shines brighter
But not perceived by many,
The violet no longer hides
And eclipses the star with
Its heart shaped petals

Mythic essence, desired
By queens... emperors.
Her hidden power.
The might of Greece
Kneels down to her grace.
The flower of spring Persephone
Has chosen. Athens symbol.
Flower to fool Apollo

Withheld greatness, how
modest she is to all.
The gift of Humility.
The faithful flower painted
Timidly by the Bible’s artists,
Is occasionally too reticent
To glance at her kind spirit
And behold my rescue

Healing Heartsease, blossoming
Even before melting snow.
The soul savior.
Violet’s tender touch of protection
Softly soothing my skin.
The salve of my machine.
Her words, the river dam.
But ephemeral is the scent.  

Friendship essence, sweet
Magic wholly consuming me.
Tolkien of love.
How elegantly and delicately her
Colors dance and sing with the wind,
To engender the Victorian praxis
Binding us both with thoughts
Occupied by timeless bliss.

Elegant royal, spiritual
Guide of my fortune and good judgment.
Muse of twilight.
For she finds me in cold calamity
And warms my hand through the abyss.
Stargazing, I dream of hope, clarity and
To be born anew. She left her nectar.
Early morning emerges in delight.
In the last poem of the second chapter, a new character is introduced. Violet is that friend that feels like she knows you deeply, even if you know each other only for months. But for a person who has lost and now feels invisible, how much of that new friendship is purely affectionate and not romantic?
Jan 14 · 1.1k
Tulip and Rose
In a field of red roses by the lake,
A white rose calls up to the sun
With her beautiful petal scarf
And her cheerful smile
Over another field, a tulip stands sad
He is one in the crowd, no one special
“Smart,” some say, “too shy” others may
But he struggles, moving his cheek

The tulip looks at the ethereal rose every day
Wondering how such a flower grew from the floor
An angel’s tears of joy, he might think
A kiss from Gaia, he would have hoped

Tulip doesn’t know much of the rose
And fears never being able to embrace her
He feels that both have too much in common
But his inner parasites would hurt her
For a majestic rose that dances with the moon in the water
Such normal tulip will never have a chance
Her perfect stem is made of silk
His is damaged and made of paper

Still, the tulip dreams
Wishing one day to fly, as his roots would rip
Detaching from the floor, from his forlorn life
Flying towards the star reflected in the lake, where his solitude would end

The white rose doesn’t realize, still
How much he admires her strength, cleverness, and beauty
Until the tulip sends his seeds of love
In the form of this poem and painting

For a more radiant future he fights
Forever aligned with the Astraea of his heart
Because she glows in the night
Inspiring him to be better
And even if the rose doesn’t recognize the tulip
She should know that he is right there
In an everyday battle to talk to her
He is smart and shy, but eager to give all his petals to see her smiling for him
The motif of flowers is key to the second chapter. We know Rose already, so Tulip is the next character the anthology introduces.
Jan 14 · 1.0k
White Rose
A mellow nose
Gorgeous as the moon
Mirrored in the lagoon

Your skin is tender
Your uniqueness is beauty
Of previously not seeing your splendor
Your smile makes me guilty

Love is your center
Kindness, your vitality
Light in the dark, a magic mender
Goddess of purity

White rose
A perfume dose
Peaceful as the moon
Mirrored in the lagoon

Your scent is the trip
And Paradise is my fate
If constantly smelling your friendship
Becomes an open gate

I will be your grip
For when you are desperate
Just accept the bee that wants your lips
To pollinate your fate

White rose
Striking a Pose
Shiny as the moon
Mirrored in the lagoon
This is the first poem of the second chapter, and it is supposed to show my new found love for this new person I met that made me feel amazing after a moment of despair. I gave her this poem adorned with real white roses to show my appreciation for her on her birthday.  Coincidently the page and chapter that "White Rose" falls in my anthology is the date of her birthday, February 22nd.
Dear Venus of my Heart,

The Solstice of blue, once flourishing with fiery flowers red, the petals of our garden froze. The chimney of our cabin of dreams, ambitious as Alexander's attainments, pops with the fog of the remnants of heat. We used to defy the now frozen roaring raging river of time and drink from the abstract notion of forever. For me, it felt like years embracing the elation of our entangled hearts, despite the days that went by. But reality is a grey mirror, and, in a hoard of wretched ways, I wronged you. Our Ecstasy, even extremely enlivening, was fleeting in behalf of my secret despair.

Imagine I a long-lasting love, a motto that guards me of any break. An unpierceable vowel, a couple for life, to live like lions loyal, bold and courageous yet entwined. So, to pour my emotions akin to the biblical flood and undergo an Ophelia, or even a Mimì, to subversion it distresses me. The motivations of mine may map me as an adamant, but I am a romantic, a believer of one true love. I just worry my machine shall yield to the snap of the edge and the ever yearly youthful yearning of restless consummation repels me. While passion is the feeling of the flesh, love is the feeling of the soul; one mate shall be fate. And my soul longs for you in spite of the lonely length that loosens our bonds.

Thus, out of my outrageous offense, I repent. I lament my vanity, this vividly voracious scruple of kissing way before and tragically after the priest's last words without a care for the bride. I apologize for this erroneous early enamor and the ceaseless insistence to the raw departure, leaving echoes of you in pictures of us. But now alas is time for my final parting, to let go because move on I shall. Heart breaks for heart's sake.

Forever and always,
H

PS: The fog shrouded our cabin of dreams. I feared going back to our place. But doubt no longer clouds my view, so I cleared the mist. Still, the chimney's black stains cannot be cleaned. Hope for this house rests on its grave. However, a new home is just around the corner. It is up to you to build it with me. I will be waiting.
This poem is a love letter to the person the previous two pieces were written for. It establishes that I finally found a way to move on and ends the first chapter of the anthology. From all the poems in it, this was actually the last one I wrote. Luckily, I actually got to reconnect with the recipient, yet I have not shared my poems with her.
Jan 13 · 215
Void, Aether, A Promise
Absence is to love as wind is to fire; it extinguishes the small and kindles the great
— Roger de Bussy-Rabutin, Memoir of Roger de Rabutin


Four thousand meters above the sea, I breathe without air
I feel the same when beside me you are no more
The black, the void chokes me in the moment’s despair
And The Scarlet Fear runs inside me with a thunderous roar

My aching marooned heart bleeds from behind
Of the darkened soul that consumes me at each stride
But love is the golden aether of my troubled mind
An oxygen supply brought to this confusion tide

Without your presence, they were icy nights
Though knowing your fire ignited with my fuel
Is a mild treat, a promise of a beautiful sight

Kindless trouble, is it all in my imagination?
And is the love I feel a mere foolish incantation?

I will never know until she answers my soundless voice
This poem follows a modification of a sonnet structure and follows the story of the previous poem, showing a layer of dissonant emotions engulfing the speaker.
I hid my heart from you for too long
And you forgave me for my blunder
Our passion roared like thunder
A storm that whistled like a song

Day by day my thought went to you
Your scent, your smile, your heat within
A gaze of brightness in dark blue
The memories tattooed in our skin

But nights went by,
time moved like light
with your obsidian eyes
no more in my sight
And the last page of this
fleeting chapter
Was marked by the absence
of your laughter

Why did I leave?
Where did I go?
How did I leave the precious part
of my own soul?

Why did I leave?
Where did I go?
How could I leave this precious part
of my own soul, of my own soul?

Your kindness was petrified
My parting has hurt you within
Your touch is now cold in my skin
Nevermore your eyes will have me seen
Nevermore your embrace will mean something

So, after years misleading you
Time has come to punish my own
I'm countless nights just all alone
Why shall your absence still wound my mind
How can the heart betray his love, his kind

And nights go by,
time moves like light
with your obsidian eyes
no more in my sight
And the last page of this
fleeting chapter
Is marked by the absence
of your laughter

Why did I leave?
Where did I go?
How did I leave the precious part
of my own soul?

Why did I leave?
Where did I go?
How could I leave this precious part
of my own soul, of my own soul?

Hearts of gold never corrode
My love for you was always bold
But never is in the fullish souls
That believe the flames are to control
The poison that turns love cold
Prevents luster to unfold
And our present is no longer told
That's the price of absence and it was sold

So, why did I leave?
Where did I go?
How did I leave the precious part
of my own soul?

Why did I leave?
Where did I go?
How could I leave the most precious part
of my own soul, of my own soul?
This poem is written like a song, and it was my first try connecting these two different genres of art that many times intersect without us knowing.
There is no such thing as to be ready or not ready for love. If you are afraid of commitment it is because you haven’t yet kissed the lips of true blessing; the spark that will burn with light and passion has not been yet cast. No fear can be victorious in battle against love. No rational thought can eradicate the heart’s desire. The body’s court of justice will be biased towards tender affection and any judgement will rule in favor of it. When genuine love is put into a scale, even the smallest bit of it will make its side heavier. Like energy, passion and attachment cannot be destroyed and like a Star, it may take a lot of time for love’s warmth to fade into an icy corpse of absence. But who can say the end will not be blistering cold?
This is the epigraph of my poetry anthology called "The Heart's Betrayal". It is not a poem per se, but I love how it sounds and it also sets up the themes behind the collection.

— The End —