dream, of a body
with strings in disarray
and spiders homed in decay—
adrift, away
in a sea of grey.

dear Light, reminisce
the scarred, stone cold hands
and beaten down souls
seeking warmth—
we met as fallen knights.

dear Light, now face
the looking glass,
see golden rays beaming—
oh, how it sparks joy!

dear Light, your eyes
travel deep
into soul—never the skin
nor the gold;
pure as springtime dew.

dear Light, you see
we triumphed
over storms and gales till today;
and may it be till
the cypresses grow.

and i long to see us dance
in a garden of blossoming pear trees;
hand in hand—evergreen.

The grand canvas is full
of downward stairs to nowhere.
Thorns everywhere;
torture devices to swayed skulls
with no light seeping in.

Little creatures; drawn jailed
in this sorrow ever so labyrinthine
and amaranthine,
chanting ballads to the void
as willpower wears thin.

a full moon eclipse,
surrender songs
dancing on my lips
lanes painted with black wrongs.

brown papers fragrant no more,
metrical lines seem so sore.

a full moon eclipse,
stars shooting down
stabbing head and limbs
pinning me to the red ground.

in the crack of dawn
again running to the sun
light at the edge of earth
bones at the edge of strength

(cacophony of racing mortals)

halt your steps, warrior;
blind your eyes
feel your lungs, warrior;
rest your bones.

blessed
be
thy
quest.

all mine, all mine—
in this Elysian
castle of glass
made of nightly
wishes and tears—
princesses, knights,
kings, queens,
jack of all trades,
Johannes factotum—

you are all mine—
all mine!

sunday morning
and belly unfilled still,
what's for breakfast?

view of the shadows,
wandering pair of
green eyes and
a dying rocky brain
wondering

why am i still here
in a virtual garden
full of calla lilies?

sitting pretty
awaiting their steeping tea,
whilst Ophelia hugged the trees
near the crystal clear resting rivers.

'tis the time where
pink roses lost colour
and laurel wreaths wilt;
old glory a mere story,
the Reaper rests under
weathered oaks and
cut cypresses;
watching foxgloves
and wormwoods grow
as I lie awake bleeding
with the amaranths.

the sun is waiting—
saturated grey curtains
stuck lovingly, still

we are thespians in a masquerade,
spilling our thousand acts of charade
whilst the soul bleeds on a blade
yet we float, neither alive nor dead.

we are dolls in a tea party,
choking on liquid vacuity
our heads a barren ghost city
nameless, aimless, brimming pity.

our middle name is empty.

I am no blessed poet nor songstress,
a sleepless mess, a jest in
swaying haziness
of **** peach and pinkish bliss
where I danced in faux Lana
and Marina skins
winning a couple hearts
his, hers, theirs, and yours,
lone wolf in romantic *******.

When the night show's over,
bows all over,
no faux skins of blessed poets
and songstresses,
neither, no more.

In my own skin, I am the sleepless mess,
the midnight mortal carving her bliss
and distress,
with the lights of blessed poets
and songstresses,
in a multitude of metamorphoses.

once upon a time,
seven princesses
and a dreaming dwarf
stood in the face
of a broken looking glass.

i can still smell the pungent air of
my old shoes on your two feet
and see the boulder on your
shoulder—hence the welcoming,
open door.

never mind my silence, see those
bottles you sent knocking me into
a soldier in a warzone, fighting for
my sealed freedom.

i am breathing fine and well within
the confines of my room walls and
warm blankets, and i will not beg
anew a soft, suede-covered
command.

i yearn a bow—a salute
to the space now.

to the wailing winter winds, i whisper
then we chatter—no wonder
those passing through deemed me a lone goner,
chanceless of love knocking the door.

i am dead jaded over failing chases,
over hopeless Minotaur mazes,
of whirling harlequin feelings
dead jaded, romance has gone tasteless.

hear my voice from this warm solitary chrysalis
leave me be, singing my soul to the winds
for thousand times more—till it snows for the last.

sit, weep, drown,
and dawdle for long,
tending your open,
salted wounds
on the evening
you may—
yet mind your fate,
dear flower seed,
for you will thrive.

and swim mighty,
with all your liberty,
out of the sea
of sugar, honey,
ice, and tea—
the brimming filth
in them that keeps on
spilling.

dancing in the deep down
dramatic, lulling lays
of Lana Del Rey—

a quill on its snow-white
then tainted-black ground
and a flooded, brimful head
on its space—

till the airhead wakes and
weeps and wails.

Melody of cacophonous melancholy—
   echoing in the wake of ripped romance,
Aflame long the wrath of a chained eagle—
  over the aching scars on its grand wings,
  yet see
Glaring umber irises rise even in downpour waltz—
  soul standing ever so strongly,
Nevertheless, like Rome and Greece—
  indeed a day is a jest to build a thing,
After blue moons, I hereby wish—
 may you soon be at ease, unchained and alive.

oftentimes, darling, oftentimes—
i tumble down the stairs and
even flat grounds, with a noise
of childlike snivel upon seeing
myriad passers-by walk ever so
gracefully—my eyes green and
my soul blue.

oftentimes, darling, oftentimes—
i covet all the sugar in the jar,
all the gold my mum stored,
while furiously daydreams
of how sweet and fair
i would be.

(oh, the avarice, the inebriating pleonexia.)

yet come to think of it—wouldn't i
be one teller of untruths, to my
own and the crowd, for i offer
them heartlessly made rainbows
in exchange for glory? no, that is
not—and should not be—me.

my brainchildren—they were born
to be knights against the demons
banging the walls of my head,
the antidote to the head and
heartache suffocating me.

even further, i can't let go
of the true pleasure of
humming to the tone of
experimentals, the sudden
light in my head, and the
crowd questioning them—
my brainchildren.

hence i solemnly swear—
to stay unfeigned, even with
thousand blemishes in every
crevice—and thrive till the
end of the line.

(i am me, and so be it.)

dare you to say a name—
chant it, darling—chant it—
feel every syllable melt
in the caverns of your
throat and that little
loving heart of yours—
and shall you see the
gods and goddesses
bless me with the blaze.

(see these eyes, what did
you find? oh no, how dare
i forgot that you are blind.)

along the flowery streets
she danced—lightly,
gaily—

celestially blossomed
to the nines.

i stood—silently,
madly—

(magically blossomed
to cloud nine.)

i see a long line
made of lunatic, inebriate saints—
chanting orisons
with their haloes and white robes—
racing to the sea
screaming and preaching—
exchanging blows
for the blood of the ******—
illuding one another
for the salvation they thirst—
saying, i am one
to ascend the divine nirvana.

am i now a heathen?
for orisons should not pierce the ears—
yet i am dead sick
thus i pray for and on my own—
for the guts to try
ending the hellish havoc.

and when i finally screamed
sets of vile eyes, fangs and weapons—
smiled at me.

for i long to see the
grand golden hues
of fresh daylight
and soft rosy blush
of early twilight—
the sunlit seas
and moonlit wilderness—
deathless bliss in a pair of
serene ebony irises—
i stay put on the ground
with my scarred feet—
battling the thunder,
the gale, the avalanche—

for you—for me.

it was spring in the
dreamy outlands,
serene rivers mantled
by soft, rosy hue of
freshly fallen petals—
the zephyr blew a light
kiss on our smiling,
blush-painted faces
dazed by the ever so
pristine allure of this
realm—

and undying warmth of
entwined fingers—

until the end of
the doze.

joy in saltwaters
plus lights, camera, action
bitter knock on door

forlorn lanes, cloudy tracks
memories play in slow motion;
a tragic romance comedy, click clack
bang, emotional commotion.

window panes, scrunched limbs
of unborn panegyrics and odes
lying low behind pseudonyms
of the lovesick, fantasist toad.

one question, your Highness,
did Heavens cry when you fall?
for i am wrecked—a mess
who am i to deserve you—and your all?

o Adaline, now i am a madman—a joke
for these broken lines—they aren't even glorious
though this fiery feeling you evoke
has turned me almost uxorious.

for Amore, the inamorata,
here's a song for the virtuosa
who made me go toccata.

love, for i am no stranger
to the thorns of roses
put me in danger
with your kisses.

love, for i am no freshman
in this school of love
take my hand to your van,
fly me high like a dove.

darling, this is not plain pain
call me absolutely pathetic,
yet the pain's polychromatic,
psychedelic.

rolling in my old Mustang,
i can't help but trying to save
the bittersweet yet lovely tang
of you, and your love.

got me head over heels,
got me down on my knees,
Amore, i beg you please
heal this ache, put me in bliss.

my love, hang on tight
for blossoms will rise after
the cold wintertide

all hail to the Grand Black,
for the great hell of a ride
to the depths of harlequin
dolour birthed a child of
the nightfall—the dancer
in the dark with myriads
of failed threnodies.

the old glee met
the young woe,
deep crimson wet
painted the snow.

in the epilogue
of their sunset days,
they bid goodbye
to the lovely ways.

lone fish in the lake
lost faith in its feeble fins
and then gone for aye

the canvas is yours
and you shall not let others
paint it all pitch black

and pathetic it is, when it
pierced me deep to espy
thriving new blooms out
in the open;

while in the glum sanctum
i stay barren and wilting bit
by bit, as a hush descends
anew.

feel, feel,
feel,

thrice screamed
yet the words
still lost their
allure,

letters scattered
along with
the ebbing
ardour,

candour and purity
vanished with
no trace,

and that was
when the
lights go
out.

here comes the
favourite sight
of the mind's
play;

the stars are alive
and marching in
vivace

as the bête noire
walks in a dying
andante.

roses **** the
peasants, either
the ones fallen
for their alluring
splendour in the
soft, mischievous
glory of their petals,
or the ones wilted
ever so miserably
in front of the
looking glass.

the sparks in mind's
chamber waned away
leaving words scattered
and shattered,

yet the wordsmith stayed
still, rough lips tightly shut
as dry eyes wandered in
a journey to oblivion,

as they went through
another void nightfall,
silently asphyxiating
in a desolate sanctuary.

i have to paint
this grey garden
with a rainbow of blossoms,
she said, holding the
forever-unplanted seeds
in her ****** hands 
from last night's rage;
green eyes staring at
Mary Sue's garden of
thousand kaleidoscopes,

until the day where
a sage came for one
nice cup of tea, 
only to witness 
her pathetic,
inane weeps,
the aftermath of
seemingly endless
stories of loathing 
and other poisons.

the sage stabbed
and scarred her
delicate hand softly
with feather-covered
needle, she wept 
aloud a cry of 
polychromatic agony.

the storms finally 
calmed, as she voiced
out her dubiety of
her own metamorphosis,
the last question of
the day,

the question she
asked herself 
in her chrysalis
days after.

little do this known,
power lies within
the faint, airy sighs
of Sunday nights;

within the showers
of years keeping
bottles of searing
anguish;

within every single
bleeding cut of
a miserable fall;

within the loud
war cry for a
quest of long
lost gaiety.

sunrises and
sunsets pass,
and so
these things;

yet power,
stays within.