And here I am, back in my anthology;
Although I have immersed myself in clouded sleep,
Whose sickly sweet could heal me no more;
I was but a tempted dawn in his lap,
A frail daughter of fate, and chastity;
My fatal sleep alone was a curse, to one and others.

Silence, beautiful voice!
How should I instill thee—and instill thee more?
And how wert thou so aloof, though deeply poised?
For every breath that I writ, and taste
is but a luminous sign of death;
an unhappy ding towards my presence,
and its mortal cringe, that is ending by the day.
And thus in such a life there is no wit
Nor cold enough, to redeem its wrath;
A wrath that shall leave this earth untouched,
A grime that hastens much, that all joy
Shall sicken and roam fast, unconsumed.
Why should all be jolly—but not to me,
Not to me, a dutiful daughter of my past,
But whose heart has hurt, by its last;
Whose tears are pure, but not profound;
Ah, me, whom such bland minds scorn in their right,
Me, whom their commoners refuse in plain sight,
Me, whom hath lost my dream of the arts,
Me, whom hath died of my own screams at night!
Ah, who am I but to redeem my joy again,
and claim a delight that was not my friend—
Ah, and which conscious soul is but to comprehend its right,
The extraordinaire of which—that are not moral nor righteous,
Nor are their tendrils—which are not even theirs,
At such a hand full of perils, risky and scandalous.
Who is longing for the pearls of a vision,
Who yearns but for love, for reincarnation,
And no love is dubious, none that remains,
But oblivious, a dire threat to its loving friend;
My fate has lost its way, to the white and cold,
My love has gone, and shan’t be with me again.

Where is but my poem, my little flushed cheek,
Why were you yesterday so smooth and meek?
Where did you hold my destiny, with a fate so clear,
Why did you choose to love me, with a love so weird;
But with no real heart to love me, and my judgments,
Shall I but be allowed to make judgments?
For there were too many taunting ways in which love swore,
And again I was dragged to the vile hot shore,
So my wisdom has raged in a swath of labyrinths,
Too painful for a soul too mean, but not a poet;
Too indecisive to read, let alone to comprehend,
And too unloved to understand, nor seek in a daze,
Perhaps unloved by its own words, like a ******,
Immature in their own corrupt years, like you are;
You are a naïve product of my mind, you are pure,
Of whose love never my sound thought is so sure,
Though hastened by a bare world not ours,
Nor a cycle that is mine, with pain so sour.

Silence, my love; and let briefness lulls you to sleep,
To the lethal eternity which salutes you, be gone,
Gone away like an eerie fairy in mortal dreams,
With their gates ajar, welcoming you in such
clamped dramas, a loveliness without thee,
A cheapness I would not by—nor defend
On the name of my artistic soul.
Did my lavender greet you and cherish you again,
And shall such a loving bud be that of thine;
But to speak less, and remain silent, o my friend—
is but a garment; a nicety to the friendly mind,
Oft’ cornered in daylight, but glazy to the lone night,
The night is kind and festive, unlike the wan sunlight,
Rotting ever is its flesh, dimmed by such sharp sins;
And grandeur and artiste which I once befriended,
That I was a deep dear of whom—‘till I was torn,
By the disfigured spring and summer
Blaming the poor beheaded winter,
A thousand miles from here, into the West yonder.

But who is to love by the spring and bright,
But who is to listen, to hear by the moonlight,
To linger forever ‘till I catch your sight,
To hesitate to claim your love, forever;
Which steals and shine on a lie, that eternally;
Who stand not by my side, in a fateful wake
Of dozens of seas and shores—and untouched dust;
And then all died, so that I ask you,
My literature, whose heart has been but one love,
Whose heart been pained, and disgraced;
In a suited torment and whirling betrayal,
To see once more, a night of sparkles and shades,
To rejoice by a lake of wind, and beautiful glades;
To relish more the charm of poetry, and the beastly—
but glorious freakish rain, so long as you are with me.

In a thought of mine, springs the midnight air;
All is my free beauty so cold and fair,
And I am devoid of a hundred stellar suns;
The illiterate to read, the stifled anguish gone.

In a thought of thee, springs the buoyant mind;
A painting so clear with an electric lair,
That all are a guitar and drum, as it sounds;
That a renewed love has been found.

In a thought of ours, springs the forest rain;
A poem to dim down that eternal drain,
To cease the doubts, and decipher all pains,
Bring me my sweet love, my immortal friend.

In a thought of love, springs the live sonata;
That all hesitation is a panorama,
Like the dramatic act, and its tragedies;
I shall sink myself in thy melodies.

In a thought of breath, springs the sweet song;
That battles rage and its dark humour,
That all mirages shall live in downpours,
That all happiness shall last a night long.

In a thought of fate, springs the sweet poem;
All in my life is a literary grandeur,
All within me desires to writ and love;
All about me in a satin room.

In a thought of joy, springs the sweet tale;
I shall wish thee the best of all and well,
I shall wish thee love, and a story to tell;
In one decreed satire, and hurried wedding bell.

In a thought of two, springs our promise;
All my nightingale and its sweet bliss,
Who is to cherish thee, so grand and wise;
Who is to be thine, so wild as a surprise?

In a thought of one, springs unity;
That all thy beauty shall be rain and youth,
And a word of love forming in my mouth;
And two hearts joining into eternity.

In a thought of bliss, shall I be here;
Such miracles shall be found near,
Who is then to listen to bare wisdom,
Concealed behind naïve truth, inside a poem?

In a thought of light, shall thou be loved;
Among the thousands of larks in the woods,
For I have chosen you to be in my words;
To be my little star, to be my beloved.

In a thought of wind, shall we find cold;
For cold itself is peace on its side,
A turmoil blending into our awake night;
A disgrace dying by a thousand lights.

In a thought of cold, shall we find grace;
Naïve in its glimpses of faltered fears,
But knowing us both yet not;
That it can but challenge the tears.

In a thought of warmth, shall we find youth;
Its spirit shattering the tearful past,
And shall we run, to find in which another smile,
And wipe all our painstaking breaths away.

In a thought of theirs, shall we find hate;
Its song slaughtering the daisies of fate,
In its velvet ways that are so simple;
A harmless perfume to the demented world.

In a thought of Him, shall we find peace;
No prayer shall be void to a sacred move,
And then I shall unite myself with thee;
Like the song sings, the poet and her love.

In a thought of you, shall we find ways;
Perhaps hidden and buried in eerieness,
No thought is too airy, not in the day;
No space is too mild, nor are they cold.

In a thought of us, shall we find life;
You are my rose and magical truth,
That who refills my chest and breath,
That who delights in me, and my red fate.

In a thought of life, shall we find ease;
All about life are roses and raging beasts,
There is happiness to forgive sins,
There is joy to a poem, and what it means;

In a thought of breath, shall we find love;
That no wrath comes near, that we find home,
That poetic arch of mine and thine,
That all lust and enormity are gone.

In a thought of night, shall we be there;
Holding each other and on to the air,
That all tears sound hastened and weird,
That our damp love is all I care.

In a thought of charm, shall we be free;
All the storms that are not tears,
And freedom that shall be here,
Presenting itself to be with me.

In a thought of rain, shall we be fine;
And in one leap of joy, thou shalt be mine,
And be my poems and words everlasting,
In the dark of the night—by the morning.

In a thought of gloss, shall fear be gone;
And my sheer heart shall be thine alone,
Be my poem a book that chastely sings,
Be thou an angel that has wings.

In a thought of truth, shall life be ours;
That all is a tale at midnight hours,
And be like a poetry of unity,
My heart lives there for eternity.

In a thought that vast, who thinks about the past;
When we crave for the poem that lasts,
And who is to fret at this new wonder;
My heart lives there forever.

In a thought that wild, who thinks about sad;
My past has left my whole mad,
Agitated by our renewed delight,
Terrified by our new dewy night.

In a thought that hastes, who says about poetry;
That all is a song our hearts can bear,
That all is enjoined lips, and their beauty;
That all is more than what they wear.

In a thought that sees, who frets about love;
That love is a substance cold and free,
****** only between you and me,
That love is a word, and words are enough.

In a thought that hears, who trusts but words;
That words shall witness those who speak,
That there is idyll in such truth, and worlds,
That words are honest, but not sickly.

In a thought that listens, who saints the sun;
There is too much hate in its glued merit,
That all is a gale but not a careful breath,
That all is bitter, and not at all sweet.

In a thought that loves, who says about love;
That love is hidden within your bare voice,
And your bare voice, in your entangled chest,
The very place I shall find ease and rest.

In a thought that writs, who says about wits;
All is mortal when they have not to say,
That they are blind at night, and in the day,
That their flooded souls shall find none too sweet.

In a thought that reads, who says about fits;
All is silence so far as the eye can see,
And who is there to flock my solitude?
I am far from the sun; and its mock servitude.

In a thought that thinks, who is to love lust;
For lust shall lose hope in one curt day,
That all is there only for the sun,
Bathed in hotness, charmed for nakedness.

In a thought that bears, who is to love hate;
For hate is the chain of every devil,
And in whose devil the world shall lay,
As that in ours, through the night and day.

In a thought that springs, who is to lose thee;
I’ve all along in the glistening white chamber,
My whiteness has been purified close,
I shall not be gone, I shan’t be lost;

In a thought that lives, who is to writ’ thee;
I’ve loved all the while in life, and in my words,
That I’ve given my love there—and so to thee,
That I shall breathe, so long as thou love me;

In a thought that breathes, who is to love thee;
I’ve loved all the years, and meanwhile,
I have been pained, and yet shall not fail;
I’ve loved and carried you still, all the while.

In a thought that whirls, have I dreamt of thee;
That such a thought shall make me sane,
And such a curse is devoid of pain,
The curse to love thee dearly, my friend;

In a thought that bursts, have I been thine;
That all solitude shall, at once, be fine,
And our bliss is faith, and faith is tonight;
I shall wait for thee by white moonlight.