Come here,
sit next to me,
don't leave me tonight.

watch, as the emeralds melt
in the turquoise rich sky
and the winds of winter
dry the sky’s wounds,
through mellow howlings.

this cold is neither bright or dark.
like our love, it is mysterious and tasteless.
come raise a glass of wine to our love,
let it spill and purify the snow,
let it drown us, till we become reflections,
aligning perfectly in infinite dusted mirrors.

don't leave me tonight,
come here,
sit next to me.

He lives through his sketches,
surviving on frugal meals,
mostly bread and wine.

Night and day,
are melancholic mirrors,
for him.

He trespasses them,
ignoring the sense of time,
to create a vortex of visions.

Countless albino butterflies,
now bathe in his color palette,

Color-Soaked wings,
now seek the blank canvas,

A Kamikaze of hues is imminent,
for this art to strive
and for the artist to escape,
the meddling reality.

even the benevolent breeze,
spares the scattered ashes,
of what was once an asylum
for flesh and bones trapped
within wandering souls,

they told me in school
that red and green fuses to yellow
but all I can see and smell are dark ashes,
the remains of the magnificent tree,

the birds have nowhere to go now,
the dogs are dying of heat,
and I can't write poems now,
for I was a patient of that asylum

it caressed my sanity every evening
my poems have nowhere to go,
they don't hide in the branches now,
they hide within me,
and I hide inside them.

it comes with slithering steps,
a quiet wave thirsty for shores,

the collapse of senses,
the reckoning of misery,

when dreams melt and flow,
reality devours with small venomous fangs,
the air stinks of a beautiful past,

shattering of glasses,
is all you hear,

a sapphire burning red,
is all you see,

regretting your choices
and your existence,
is all you want,

but a heartbreak is not that cruel,
it is a mercy,
an indemnity,
from what lies ahead.

a sky full of loneliness.

As waves wrestle playfully,
I revel like a nonchalant dreamer near the shores,
watching the sun disappear,
while the sounds of sea,
calm its disappearance

I waited all night,
to see the golden coronation
of the bluish waters,
as the horizons brightened up
in the morning

a thousand faces,
a million visions,
now stay within me,

meanwhile the city of dreams,
sleeps somewhere.

sun bathes in snow,
a few hues melt
to eventually freeze
in the sky
a crepuscular light,
a white grave of memories,
that smells like burnt wood
and fresh dark wine
by the fireplace

a white sheet of blindness,
over a glass of silenced darkness
fire devours
the aching coldness,
the melody,
appeases even gods,

the fangs of frost
***** the petals of the flowers,
some of them will die this winter.
intertwining beauty and death
both of which we seek,
but at different times of life

lightness descends
in the head,

as brief visions of yours,
reincarnate within myself

you were not just a beauty
last night,
you were a poetic illusion,

an art made of small verses,
brewing sinful temptations

and I read you very slowly,
like one of my own written creations,

for I have been a starving reader
all my life,

and you were finally
an end to my starvation.