Human, itself being a founded note;
Born and dead on our short horizon,
And Time, our delusion and destination
That shall taint us, but blessed with Years.

Birth, itself being a feat of nature;
Towering above our beats and vision
That binds our imagination, and be
The Perfumed Life that came true.

Life, itself being a precarious gift;
That shall disobey within its Time,
And its frame, a disgrace to us all
Shall befall us, halting all our Hearts.

Second, that comes within minutes;
And goes again by the end of the day
Admonished into the Wind, and see—
Time is too violent still, indeed!

Minutes, that injects made Hours into us;
That lingers by but too shall fade,
That all we have is a vivid parade,
And its notes a fake chain of choirs!

Hours, being the tomb of various lies,
And the secrets we have held now;
From the womb, and through our Years—
Witnessing all through our lapsed visions!

Days, being the chosen way to live;
And the present of Time to give,
We shall ignore all feverish truces,
But make the fruitful of all, peace!

Weeks, being the collective nights, ah!
With thousands of secrets and demerits,
That all we see may contain a pace;
In the worried maze of our world, again!

Months, being the rigorous catch alone;
That all champagne may sound forlorn,
For a melody is once, and then torn
We speed fast indeed, every morn!

Years, but we should be at Pace;
That our eyes be calm, and not wander,
After one another's wonder, and bliss,
For Peace do exists, within Life's ease!

Peace, and we all shall be Joy;
And such Joy we cannot destroy,
To live with sweat, and happy cheeks
To entertain brief Months, and Weeks!

Eyes, and in such Peace we see;
That not all souls provide their space,
But not to worry, and keep your pace
In the East and West, be a Heart at rest!

Chest, being the place where Heart rests;
And the emotions that Life tests,
Whether to be strong, or weak—
Whether to revenge, or to forgive!

Heart, itself being an obedient fun;
Healing again aft' broken by one,
Yet I do find t'is at times oblivious,
And such meant forgiveness is tedious!

Vein, itself being a remote rose;
That threads Life into all morning prose,
And kills all venom in naïve pores,
But too to die, amidst the chosen chores!

Age, being a sign of a frail human;
Neither majestic nor grandiose,
For there is no happiness lasting forever,
Neither does prejudice, but Time.

Blood, being alive only with beats;
Is not by anyone called merit,
But to speak of any Truth, it hurts,
And upon such pains, it freezes!

Skin, feel the touch of the good and beasts;
The sick of the flesh and hereafter,
And Faith, the one that should be longer,
Would you but ****, would you but ****?

Faith, feel the insane and harmony;
And in all arrays of immunity shall pray,
That all alive shall be golden, alone,
That all that breathes stays salubrious.

Fire, a blazing energy alone;
But not of a pleasing idea, indeed,
And who stays alive after doses of Fire—
Whose soul shall love, who shall admire?

Sun, spreading its abyss and sharp rays;
For Dark is violated in her, and see,
Everywhere we see but raging Fire,
And syringes of Fire, again, shall ****!

Dark, spreading its wings to raided pits;
But there is a little Light, dimly wit,
That we all should not leave tossed,
To find our way, not to get lost!

Cold, a blatant whisper, and fever;
That all human fleshes are feverish,
None is taken in everlasting bliss,
None encourages eternal blessings, ah!

Rage, an apparent command, and aye;
A weariness explained to all souls,
That tastes bitter at present, and later,
Living indeed, in here and the afterlife!

Anger, a feared one—a polar of tears;
Ice and Smoke blended into worn fits of fears,
A scream denied by what one hears,
A turmoil of scars boiling up high!

Laugh, a genuine smile, but hurts;
As though plainness was preferred,
But never true, for such views are
Provisions, to the normal communes' hearts!

Smile, the smothered voice, and bless;
Make all our veins worry much less,
And render all miseries, again, unhappy,
Bless your tender soul with fine poetry!

Tone, being the voice of its martyred soul;
Diving into the throats of fishy and foul,
Of which raging minds that we hold no clue,
Of the times of death—the ends of breath.

Chords, being the music of the tragic;
To some, whose magic sounds so meek,
Always buoyant, but ne'er sleek,
To the artist's challenged mind, watch!

Song, being the allergy of the night;
For such Hours prefer silence, alright,
Only to demerited souls, and again—
Such normal souls are barely our friends.

Poem, being the silence our souls seek;
Being the tightness to hold on to, see,
Being the Flawless Moon we fight to be,
Being the heart that keeps us alive.

Sweet, being the very art that awaits;
The pretty picture we see, and writ,
At the most romantic hours, and late
The most honest insight into my soul.

Words, being the art we move and paint;
So ardently, and within a housed vault,
That is at peace with those green bushes,
And the broad, frozen shoulders of Night!

Graphs, being the drawing of the artist;
Being the silent cold that we love,
Being a river as lovely as Vincent,
Being an adornment like a friend!

Lakes, being an admitted raindrop;
In which flow our dropped gloom and misery,
And Seas and Oceans wrapped in giggles,
That in their triumph spread, to all souls.

Seas, being an Ocean full of lives;
The hive of bees, sharks, and olives,
The knot of cries, screams, and laughter,
Growing as ever, together and forever.

Oceans, bearing waves of Sadness and Joys;
Of pains that were once solemnly borne,
Of anguish that hath somberly gone,
Of gladness of being sober, alone.

Sunset, being the edge of anxieties;
And when rain comes, all beings cheer,
Attending Midnight's capricious fair—
And the dance of spring sights, full of joy.

Night, being the love of all charities;
And the living forgiveness wished well,
The place where, anew, hopes are born;
The lodging where all dreams come true.

Dawn, being the sight of Newness;
Whenst all wakes up in sighs of happiness,
And celebrate living in frantic breaths,
Life stirred up once more, and be met.

Light, being the Aurora of Joy;
Like the one reborn in the universe,
That we oft' see in the skies of Helsinki,
Be the true love you and I can see.

Wind, being our own saluted breeze;
And to our charms is never late,
That, before the storm, shall kiss us,
With a stirring Warmth that shall last.

Haze, being the panorama of late;
The renewal of old, agitated Fate,
The forgiven sins we fluently see,
The most adored destiny we will be.

Fate, being the fullest of our dreams;
And more obvious than they seem,
That Fate is fair, and not a nightmare,
The one being true lovers shall share.

Mate, being the most advanced lover;
With deep passion shining forever,
And awake, in each other's slumber—
Not to betray, nor harm, never.

Joy, being the most prominent soul;
The core of all painters and poets,
The heart of all lovers and tales,
To wait for thee, to love me.

Warmth, being the most prudent of all;
The most sought in this crowded world,
And the Charms and Love that come with it,
Being the very Fate we have longed to greet.

Charm, being the Truthful of those;
With a heartbeat as grand as every prose,
And to wait for its eternal rose,
To forgive truly, to heal each loss.

Truth, being the most stellar itself;
In which Love forms its paradise,
And to wait for its longest bliss,
To enjoy all sights; embrace their mists.

Love, being the truest of all that rests;
The most desired in a human's chest,
And to wait for our true Love be,
To wait truly, and most patiently.