My list of antonyms of death,
Include not just life or birth,
Still not limited to just alive,
Some others I include in the list.

Youth is one of those,
Old humans never get,
Unyouthful they become.

Marriage is a name for youthfulness,
Youth never fades in faithfulness.

Loneliness never haunts few lucky,
Over the years of separation,
Veering away from love never,
E**spousing the spouse forever.

A** beautiful person is sought,
To fill in colours of happiness,
Upon a big blank page of mine,
Love pearls could be rethreaded.

Now success is on the horizon,
Even though I have tried all along,
Every time I have failed to achieve,
Drawing even closer to success is life,
So have been the recent days of mine.

Loneliness haunts me like ghosts,
Of the future-past will have come,
Vanished from my life are all joys,
Edging closer to the end of my days.

"How are you?"
Such an empty question, with an even emptier answer:
"Good."

I'd like to tell (you) how
Everything I (see) looks disgusting to me.
Watermelon seeds are like bugs
eating away at the raw, juicy flesh.
The ground is infected with muddy snow.
The melting of it unearths carcasses of lost junk.
Leaves are discs of decay.
The wind breathes smoky, tarry clouds by
– fogging up my mind.
Tongues are like slugs; kissing is repulsive.
Bodies are malformed clumps of clay, painted with egos.
Slimy egos.
The emptiness corrodes me.
It's about to get paradoxical,
how full of caves (my) heart is,
each echoing:
"You. You. You."

I'd like to tell you
how when I think of you, my mind immediately jumps to:
Our budding tu(lips) touching.
Embracing you,
the comforting muscles of your arms like sculptured masterpieces,
sheltering me in a warm bubble.
Your breath whispering on my neck, my skin replying with static fuzz.
When I think of you even the puddles of mud look like silk.
The clouds (move) by like pillows of the sky.
Leaves, sheets of oneliness, become one
in an orchestra conducted by the wind.

I want to tell you everything
*(but you can't hear me.)