Winter Love, never did last till spring ,
Who knows what the year , is fated to bring;
And yet i say , somethings are meant to last,
Unlike petty parchments of our past .

We are separated by worlds ,
Of the same **** city ;
But even parallel lines ,
Do meet at infinity.

‘Tis your pennies that make me pound,
Like a shepherd mourning his fallen hound ,
Such is the death of my drunken pride ,
That makes winter , a poet’s bride .

‘Tis your comfort , I wish to skin,
And the game of chance , that scripted your win,
Such is the shine of a tanner’s hide,
That make’s winter , a poet’s bride .

‘Twas your charity that made me wait,
On the doorsteps of your divine’s hate ,
Such are the Churches I laid aside ,
To make winter, the Poet’s bride .

Realization Strikes

I can’t rhyme my way to the kingdom of warmth
But I can roam the streets ,
Like I always did ,
In search of warmth

And Roam I did

I roamed that Street ,
Where the City pretends to be what its not .
I roamed those Hearts who call that Street,
Home of their Christmas thought .
I roamed it all ,
Till the fairy lights were there to help me see ,
But Alas ,
I found no warmth where they promised it would always be ,

But Instead ,

Not Far away from the echoes of the city making merry .
I found an abandoned cemetery,
And in the Sea of unmarked graves,
I heard the voices of forgotten braves;
And So,
I learnt the art , Of braving the Chill,
Without a survivor’s iron will  .
I learnt to sleep without a care ,
And immune I became to winter’s nightmare .

Shed my blood, can you ?
Like you shed your guilt;
Or suffocate me in ,
The world we together built.
But then,
A painless death ,
Is too much to ask;
From a stranger hidden,
Beneath a lover’s mask.

So ,
Am I your Midsummer’s Night Dream laid bare ?
For you are my Midsummer’s Nightmare

And Yet,

One last time ,
Can you take away my breath?
For a ***** I am,
Who makes love to death.
And Where once desire thrived ,
Now Darkness Plays;
The lingering tunes,
Of my final days.

So ,
Am I your Midsummer’s Night Dream laid bare ?
For you are my Midsummer’s Nightmare

I beg forgiveness to the sky
For stealing two of the brightest stars
To to put them into your eyes

Because I swear,
Every time I look into those eyes of yours
*My heart already made a wish,
Before my mind could even form a sentence

This isn’t the first Saturday night ,
When your muse will gently kiss a faded parchment ,
And give birth to verses
That will keep me awake all night.

This isn’t the first Saturday night ,
When I will spill more ink than a wounded soldier ,
Writing his last letter back home ,
From the treacherous trenches
Of scarlet love.

But then the trenches I sought refuge in,
Are more treacherous than the rusted bayonet ,
With which he will script ,
The final chapters of his life .

And yet like him ,
If there’s one thing I have come to believe in ,
Then it’s this :
There is more comfort ,
In believing ,
In an unshakable absolute ,
Than there is in hiding ,
Beneath the mills of woolen warmth.
And
There is more naked grief ,
In letting your dreams ,
Be hinged to uncertainties,
Than there is in daring ,
To brave the winter without your warmth.

And yet you wonder?
Why I detest absolutes,
Which need a blanket of uncertainties ,
To survive the chill of a Saturday night ,
A night which as it drags on,
Like a frozen Nicholas sleigh ,
Seems to mock every fiber of hope in my being ,
Fibers that I unravelled to adorn
The dwelling of My absolute.

This isn’t the first Saturday Night when the tale will remain incomplete
Without that innocent question I crave to answer

For you are my absolute ,
Uncertainty.

When darkness is a friend you need,
When winter sings you frozen leads ,
When dimming is the world of life ,
Play host not to wisdom's wife.

You approached the chalice of despair,
Stained your memories , fickle but fair,
For when reality left you speechless and astounded,
You rode high on the ***** of abandoned.

The season has changed , but so should we ?
Why would you let broken shackles be ,
Your different self .

Did you try ripping pages from your past,
And drift in the seas of memories,
Without a mast.
Even Oaks shed their leaves once a season,
It's not about regret,
It's about reason.

Like the silent eye of the raging storm,
In a world of demagogues , you defy the norm,
Let the bells of freedom toll for you ,
And paint love in a different hue .