Falling like sunlight
Fondness.
Tonness. Intervals of kindness.
To be in the library, is be in the center of the knowledge of world. Dexterity.
Decilate in art.         Accidental philosopher.     Diplomat to the outsides.
Breathless figure.
Inarticulate sounds. Fluttering. I lust for poetry. Over influcration. Embellish in romance. An enchanted landscape. A place to escape. Forgetting the world’s troubles. Inspiring colours for painters. Strong affections, enough power to break mountains. Deliberate.  
Child to romantic soil
A child to hope,
rude poem,
Lover
creator of ballads and a voice to those who remained in faith to our love
that explodes inside. Thou shall be in poetry, a following, a celebration of finding love.
Faithful.
Never
to
give
up.
What new experiences can be made, from out of it?
Waking conscious and worth saving.
Lesser people wander aimlessly to the mundane and daily living of life.
No more, where meaning and contentment is away from us. Self-doubt, second guessing, the unknown wanting. Parted and given us it’s words it will never return.
Awakening happening in common people.
Wisdom like a philosopher,
patience,
like a monk.
Honey for the world. Silk flowing over lovers.
Not a mythical pedigree, changing into mythical logic fame
Rising above those outside, with moth-eaten dreams attached to them
Romance flowing here, inside of us,
innovating ourselves, to a self, not yet fully conceptualize.
Under lamps that shimmer along the theatre district or at the painting corners, using every colour or shade one could touch.
Yawns between lovers. Declaring new sensations, as we stare at one another, peeking into the souls.
Acting on love, in endless ways.
Imagine, living a life, no matter of one’s rank and all ignorance drips, vices drop and died. With everything you’re seeing, is a tempting beauty and it’s fruits is beyond to what one is expecting. So far, nothing in us defines us, only musings inside.
A scent from butterflies smiling filling out our immediate presence. Soft spaces and we speak of cello music, holding violets, unable to look away.
Luminous in rich olive’s, magnetic and yet, highly ******. Always more than something we write in lines of prose. ******* to one another, despite being free in the search of love and truly being who we are meant to be. As it turned out. We’re in each other’s life, trapped in the cage of the others inner-world, drowning in holy love.
Instead of a call, living in each other is the process of healing towards illumination in rebirth.
They are the poets of love,
we are the actions of those poems.
That are always too slow
and our soul is spreaded over, too
many poems.
Muses, let us innovate,
as you allow them, to
emulate, outside Eden,
footprints over earth. Turning together, presing footprints on earth, naked in the ****.
I mind how I spend my time,
if it’s with you, the meaning I know now, is experience,
bear stripped heart
outside your presence, I experience the Devil’s revenge.
And I begin to
resent life
and tear myself down to my knees, sobbing for forgiveness.
Love has no need or time, for suffering.
Angels rubbing their eyes, to make sure this is no dream. An empire to last. Love now, as if forever exists. Echos in interstellar.  Devil in a hurry. Poetry flourishing, like a flower in the desert. Beauty in a singular spot. Silence and solitude. Painting. Open piano.
Quantity of dust and ashes, time clocks on.
Poetry is the written salt along to Heaven, maybe Hell.
Social maze. Landscapes of emotions. Thinking thoughts.
Wasting no genius.
Under the rain of beauty.
Dazzling and eyes who ventured to read, with a wild spirit, self-wishing to self-tame. Lovers are always infamous.
Delicacy in touching with thy hands, dispensing in romance. An essence of everything, I see clearly. Unable to turn away. I’m left alone. Most are peasants when it comes to love. Yearning to soak in a lovers arms.
Dragging streets, out of a smell. Wider places in vast population. I’m alone in a crowd, where everyone else had labelled them ‘humanity’. Reflecting wealth, freedom, grandeur and the arts. In poverty, sorrow, friends and pain.
More refined everyday.
Spontaneous life.
Violent blue eyes. Tilting your head up. Glittered with hope and expectation. One gesture, shining rays of sun, falling upon you, made for paintings, immortalized in my memory. The greatest poem, in the eyes of the romantics, is always expressed in the action of their soulmate. For that is never to be shifted. Costing the world it’s own value, including the wonder to the cosmos.
Maybe it’s a distant destination to fall in love. Complete, whole, true and pure. Within what poets say and performed outside poems. An invincible manner. Where sun rages. Moon silver glow. Composed to be transfixed on love. Dogma spoken from her mouth. Kisses as baptism. Hearts as altars. Landlord over my soul. The be all, to end only me. Living here, but, it does not seem like reality. It is. Not in poetic fashion. Nor romantic. It is, truly musings. For we are the ones doing so. Credited by Angels. Bathing us, songs for prophets. Ruining the taste for earth. An odyssey. Labyrinths. Myths. Folklore. Rumours. Stories. Full circle. Arch of eternity. Burning and raging. Doubting no more. Feathers scattered across this land mass and ocean full water earth. Our inner worlds are ours, no others. It’s where we keep the real poetry. Blessed. Everything else, it’s in the other side, unseen to most. Besides mystics and muses. And a couple of monks. Running art, faster than the wind is blowing.
Conflicting poems.
Obscure on purpose.
Erratic, like thy moods.
Beauty flushes.
Pearls of wisdom.
Dying.
Dancing stars and forgotten poems.
Savouring each moment in thoughts and memories. Recover from a life unlived. Spotlight.
Anxious to improve.
Compassion, toiling bells. Bouncy eyelashes.
Sphinx,
claps,
soul.
Repress the image of me.
Existing in thy mind. Painful rose. Tilting. Stumbling to touch life that has never been lived. Unequal destiny. Flaunting. Presenting a face for earth. Bursting.
Freedom is demand, freedom isn’t here.
Lovers in the third eye.