What is there to voice out?
My passion isn't familiarity,
it's a sign of vulnerability.
It reminds me of
heightened tragedies,
And my pensive dilemma.

Parallel lines are definite.
Close; yet endlessly apart.
Tell me, was it a summer's dream
or autumn's death?

The dead victorian era
of fallen kingdoms
and ghostly ruins,
maybe I lost it there,
along with the
glory of falling in love.

You are in every poem.
My words are turning
into proses of guilt.
What should have been
left buried, or
in a bottomless ocean,
has now risen and
is ready  for chaos.