I do not want to be the shadow
Trailing in your wake
Grasping at your impalpable luminescence
Or the tremulous hands tugging
At the hem of your trousers  
I am moth. You are flame
The dying sun in my horizon
I can turn you into poetry
But I cannot make you love me.

Something in the wood took you
I try to find pieces
Of your very being
Tucked beneath some moss rock
Or underground
In burrows of the thick and tangled undergrowth

Amidst a stillness
Tainted by an eerie drone
Suffusing the atmosphere
Traversing a terrain
Devoid of landmarks
I follow faint footprints
A sullen scent
I can hardly recall
A dulled voice
Sifting through the pine  
You are not there
All that remains of you is
An echo of an echo (of an echo).

His name lives
In between panic ragged breaths
The essence of man
Perfection,
I will never hold
In my trembling arms
He is the wavering ocean
I am just a pebble
In a still pond.

Parade ambiguity
In the face of discarded sentiment
To hasten the collapse

Feet anchored
On the borderlines you drew
The perfect idea
That failed to hold true
The essence of void,
Your departure

Scattered stars
Out of view
Once more into the fold of Incomprehensible despair
I carry our story in my hands
All I have is the story.

He kept pounding
On the door of her heart
Athirst for the scent of
The bloom of the plant  
To absorb the decadence
Of whimsical charm
That which seeped from her being
Irises that bled a rivulet
Of scarlet roses
Conquered a man
Dictated by a savage desire
To bathe in
The impalpable shimmer
Of her pearl white hydrangea
Adorned sun halo.

Darling, your face is my favourite
The afterglow of eventide
Flashing golden brown
On your cheek
Pulsating vibrancy
Infusing placidity,
Lucidity
Into my anarchy suffused heart
My very being awash in tenderness
That which you exhale
Darling, you are my most indulgent narcotic

Splendiferous blousy hydrangea
Flourishing with life
My affection soaring
Like the hue
Of the bloom of the plant
Whose fragrance reminds me
Of your tenderness.