When I look at you,
I can see the autumn
trees rising in swirling
emotions, earthly leaves
clinging to every movement,
soft beats intoxicating serene
creations, as the midnight
moon gazes at the cityscape,
masterpieces of brilliant
dreams, admiration and
appreciation, captivating
hues surrounded by
extravagance, as I breathe
in the depths of your
existence and feel the
kinetic energy sink
inside my heart.

Art is a fleeting explosion of beauty;
What can you do but caress it as it dies.

You're like the shiny red apple,
picked for its outward perfection.
Sliced open, rotten,
with the grainy leftovers
of a worm quite comfortable
to be flying incognito in your heart.  
Whitewashed tomb,
with decay at your core.

Sometimes as a poet
It is easier to write
And relate to the things that hurt

Because the heart knows
What it means
To feel -- beautifully terrible

I look beyond my tears
and see that you are gone
I wonder now what to do
Where does my lonely heart belong?

You said our love would never die
but ashes are what remain.
For this reason now I cry
this suffering causes pain.

how can our love be dead?
for you my heart still sings.
I remember what you said,
in my head in still rings:

"Love doesn't end with death,
our hearts will beat as one,
for me your love is a final breath
as this bullet leaves this gun."