The last six,
The end of a long journey brought by the judgement of my eyes,
Alined to make up eighty pages, making up a hundred and sixty one poems, which too has the horizontal checksum of simply just eight.
But why eight ? Because it is equivalent to four pairs of wings,
Carrying me, softly, gently across the sky of emotions and thoughts,
Eight is a round number, yet a pretty imperfect one wavy alike the sea
Built in a castle of crystal starlight, misery and happiness unite,
As time ticks on I too will find one which makes me just melt away
Like no one else has, in a unique style, a honourable moment to fade,
The broken pieces of a dream remain shattered as I can't move,
Yet I am not sad, for I finally have done what I loved the most,
In a world of art and devilry I created both, became immortal,
So I will try and write through the night, until I exhaust myself or achieve my goal, hence, what is left but destruction at this point ?
Your brilliant smile is burnt and rots, transient carried away by wind.
And I remain standing, livng on forever.
In limbo.

~ Umi