the problem is..
being a poems in yearning..
in the silence of solitary nights..
i still wander heedlessly..
upon the pleats of my papery heart of longing..
besotted by the fragrance of a garden of love..
that we never planted in a distant desert..
is that you savour and trust each words your lover has..
but without question..

the problem with..
being a poet in conscience..
so skillfully that i have crafted the art..
to carefully lay the beats of my heart..
to sleep between its folds and pleats..
O’ this Origami of my heart..
how well i have mastered the art..
and it's all about you..

we are simply in love..
with bare literature...
spoken from the mind of someone we hold in higher regards..
and then ourselves sometimes..

in the stillness of serene dawns..
i still walk barefoot..
upon the folds of my rugged heart of yearning..
looking for the footprints of a shore..
that we never cared to saunter together..

when you love a poems..
each word you utter should be a piece of artwork..

Still..
Oh, still at the very thought of your figure..
i hold this creased paper in my palms heart..

and still..
still before you come to know of it..
i gently fold it away..
and hide it in the voids of my *****..
along with the paper jasmine,
paper flowers,
paper stars,

each sentence is a highly thought out structure of awe and beauty to leave us seeping..
in the warmth of your voice and caressing such fine words..

meh...
along with the few crumpled angels..
treasured to forget for sure..
between the pressed beats..
of your flimsy heart..

so when deciding that you love someone,
who writes or reads for it..
just go for it..

fill their souls with beauty,
memories,
and truth especially,
for a poet's heart breaks at ease..*


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