Devoured by the warm, doted kiss
of the lucent moon, offering bliss
I embraced her glow, sensing peace
as the night breeze howls, hauling mist

We shared the night together, side by side
the moon and I forever, with her I may reside
amidst the multitude of stars to guide
She shine brightly, begetting ocean tide

Yet every beauteaous thing has an ending
I thought, as we wait the sun to start beaming
The sunrise peek on the horizon, gleaming
and I part with serene, mutedly mourning

Let me start by saying goodbye.

As to every moment you draw
near me, a sporadic mystical
event, left me in overawe of
you and your conflagrant hue
as you trail across me, I see
how glorious you ought to be;
how a great voyage you are on
and how I am of other kind, not
of your own; how we were never
to collide, nor a glimpse of me
in your memory 'twas never to
provide a hunch of who I am
Perhaps, this is how it should be
For a moon has her sun
and a comet has his journey
And the moon is to eclipse with her sun
and the comet has to go with his journey
Thus, I shall cut this heartstring,
and swim out of this drowning
sea of dreams and delusions
and breath the reality back in
Yet I will forever and always be,
an admirer of your beauty; and
maybe, in another time, you
might catch a glimpse of me
covered in blanket of darkness,
accompanied by myriad stars,
You will see me, I know you will
But you will never recognize me
for and with my eternal mediocrity

And I will end by saying hello.

Her poetry is a wrist continuously weeping
Emending fallacy of her bare actual being
Liturgy of her demurring heart screams
Perhaps a pellucid précis of sodality's grim

Moreover, never did the words pierced thee
Ephipany to her cloaked cry, 'tis ought to be

Every storm has an eye
But this certain storm
is in her eyes
Dark clouds fogged up her vision
a rain of tears flooded the lid
a sudden streak of light—
the lightning, perhaps,
flaunted; illuminating the abyss within
and there emerged her piercing scream
weaving through the gorging dusk—
which is a thunder of her own

And she spread her arms
as the night breeze kissed her face
she jumped; she fly
only to realize that
she's not an angel
nor a bird
nor a butterfly
and so she fell
yet amidst the free fall,
she unraveled her tangled knots
from there, she lost her pain
but she fell on the ground
like a fine drop of rain.

And the storm has ended.

Her life is a melody,
an etude of melancholy
Her wrist is a violin,
where marks of practice make its toll
Her bow is a blade
sliding it deep and hard
until the notes,
colored with crimson red
oozes out

Tonight, she made up her mind
She will end the etude
that she composed all her life

The restroom is her stage,
her shadow is her audience
She will play her violin
until the last note drops