I.
I have heard of summers bereft of lanterns:
when the billows dishearten the sterns
and the cicadas are refused their echoes.

At eventide, along serenades and brimming
drums under the moonlight, gleaming—
over untied wishes as they perch

on untouched canopies and
patiently— under the lightless cradle.

Unto the iridescent fire-flower:
I pray for a summer dyed pink.

(but the flames cling still to the wicks.)


II.
In a port where dreams lift their anchors,
awaits a maiden solus, fiery with ardour—
full of dreams; her strides full of lush!

With most endearment, dare she asks:
if a lieu would be spared in her name;
if our hearts would remain stark aflame,

upon farewell, at her swan-song?

Towards a city where stars end:
She marches and points her north.

(like an ember left aghast without its light,
the unending summer at the back of my mind.)


III.
A lone maiden stands at summer's end;
wishes tied on mahogany, her colours—
dyed the expanse cerulean awhole,
and its interpause, in mirthful rose.

I.
There are no pillars of fire to—
gather around; the clouds, they
deluge the prayers to and fro.
The deafened rumblings racing

the pouring torrents, as they
try to reach out, to answer,
and frown like morose protests,
like restless tantrums; and I—

I can only gasp for air.

Like salvations and unmet counsels.


II.
Remembrance follows ever-dearly;
shuffles carelessly amongst hasty—
coronations of dusted amber,
of dubious prints on the sand,

and it comes along, lavishly.
Esperance creeps tauntingly:
I wonder if it’s within me,
to reach out and sear the weave—

with conjoined hands, praying for air.

Like revising sextants and astrolabes.


III.
Dread is a candle in the dark,
nestled tightly into the fingers
and burrowed deeply into—
hands; they choose to hold on.

Blessed are the hands that harrow
and lean to the curtains of twilight,
to the lenses of hindsight:
merely debtors, to the fealty of morrow.

I can no longer grasp for air.

Like rainbows after a downpour, like chrysalides striking an impasse.

.

You tread so, unfondly and almost—
too carefully after the echoes
of wintry whisperings, yet swerve—
and twirl in a grand vesture

of fireflies, of distant worries;
dream like a glowing summer
amongst dwindling youths
and enraptured stardust:

solemnly, and dearly too.

"I will be happy, if you were..."
insistent, you professed; yet deny me—

your caged heart.

Your silhouette casts over
the fiery meadow, over—
the vibrant ruins; finds harbour
only, in the eyes of the serpent

and prance wreathed in light.

Caress your clipped wings; embrace—
yourself and bear in mind, always:

I will sit with you in the dark.

When certain thoughts gather in a cyclic recession, and the measure of moments decline; however dearly:

various arrays of colours and motives tend to converge into a common, single voice:

"I wanted to be better."

I.
I once asked about halations, and wondered what they were;

If they did at all exist, for once.

How they'd appear only in blurry and unfocused pictures;
Or perhaps at times, still and expectant on the verge of our tears?

Now the question:
"What makes a halation?" And if we're thinking of the same thing.


II.
So I then wrote about halations, and tried to make (believe) sense—  
of what they were (not) portraying.

I spoke of their lucidity amongst all others;
of their ever-curious charm,
and of their picturesque whims—

yet denied them a photograph; and opt for another.

Hence was said:
"More than a picture; a metaphor."

In other words: are we thinking of the same thing?


III.
With it, I'll once again talk about halations, and wonder where they are;

Wonder when they might appear.

If the lights still scatter after—
and on the far side: if they would cast the same fair shades then.

Here I quote:
"For every shot taken is merely a remnant of the most beautiful."

I will speak of the light; and without doubt—
be thinking of a different someone.

You'd ask me over again,
If it's okay to not want;
to not ask for more.

I would in turn answer again—
and over again:

"Despite the distances walked,
and sparing moments borrowed,

I don't—
I wouldn't mind,"

because to love is to give,
and that is all I know.

"For every shot taken is merely a remnant of the most beautiful."

Portrait or Landscape,

was a question I had. As I took my stride
by the sunset, each step closer to decide:

If I should choose to line her by the horizon,
if her smile would grace the far lazing firmament?
Or have me content; to fit her full by the screen,
to fix her eyes upon me: A never ending entrancement.

Or if I should at all risk pauses in between? An endeavour,
a plausible reasoning to paste eternal; to capture every moment.

I disagreed.

So I put my camera down and lived the moment.

On the edge of madness she held my hand and said:
"The best things aren't always perfect, do you know that?"

Rose tinted papyrus and silver parched ink,
words written; heart stretched to a brink,
and I sought to picture, yet she peers through;
smiles and sparkles at every word said to.

Bright yellow dressed in a sleepless blue,
sometimes pale pink brushed in maroon.
Haunting and decorous; a palette uneven,
drawn infinitely close and I; completely smitten.

"More than an offering of affection;
a heedless and selfless dedication."

"Amidst the pleasantries and the cups of wine,
lies a desire for an ending; clement and bold."

Paths paved and discords leveled,
street lights dimmed as worries heaved;
in between moments; the air relentless.
I see a table prepared at dusk's end.

"As wishful as it is painful; only restful wished I be,
as I perched unattended; joy amiss with a cup of tea."

An endeavour to grasp the ardent;
trying to sooth the seething, the fervent-
-ly glimmering stars cleaved and concised,
misgiven and juvenile; yet far hind-tarded:

"The fool burned trying; and the starlet free."

And here I recon; I concede-
readily and consequently,
in admiration; in recede:
captivated, inadvertently.

Smitten and bewitched; I'd stay,
expedient and unruly:

"My sight I have bargained; all for one seething spectacle."

With this I stray, unlighted and aphonic;
I leave my sentiment in silence.

If be becomes am when I,

When I am sad and think about all the sightings prior,
When I am anxious and all corners fall apart; prior
to the tipping top I am looking at, my dreams exhale
frivolous endeavours as I am trying to breathe; to inhale

In apathy.

Forgetful and retracted;
I lost tact in compulsion,
Exasperated and unfaithful:
I am divorced.

And so, be becomes am when;
I tip all dreams prior.

I’d consider a trip over two quills and a bottle of ink,
A wooden pencil as well; an eraser-ended one.
A sharpener green and stacks of empty notebooks;
Two chairs and a short table upon a patio, with a drink.

And I’ll be content with:
A couple forests to watch,
Rings of rainbow to wear,
And a piper to dance with.

Then maybe after a nap under a lyre;
trilling upon a bed of proses,

And just maybe then I’ll write for you.

“Take away, the paper;
cuts a hole in the heart.”

Like bloom anew, awoken,
and envious: a verde-begotten
flaunty smirch veiled upon;
to flourish, now or maybe then?

Thereon fringes; in between spaces,
And the perversely peeking quills
spying; as eager ambience instills;
The silver bearing fissures seethes

red to be and yet; I see it paler,
that I might have it shed if ever
a pearl would shine over its beholder,
I’d dye me green, and cast that hand away.

“Drift away, the ink;
trails farewell apart.”

"I sing for the past; in hope to wail for the coming future."

He says.

What of the present?
I ask---
And what of the passing time?

The glass freezes; rends
and the raindrop---
The doorbell, and th' songbird;

The mannequin moves,
And stops to listen

To the roses and
the dandelions;
Promises and---
The ever lying
lilacs,

Then walks unturned,
To ignore; yet again
Steps'n turns unvain-
ly; the floor churned

And he was sold to the ever inconstant.

Laughter upon my lips,
Ere my ears it slips
along it falls,
And silence fell;

Always.


"Envy be me."
I thought.

"Pity be you."
I last heard.

The door closes;
The mannequin speaks.

A mirror a warp, rivers and weft;
I found a world, in all woven scripts.

A boon rare'n fleetingly
Adamant; courteous in mien,
Your silhouette unbound;
Your complexion unhindered;

A glint of yond'r,
Stolen glimpse, far fetched;
Fluster; gossamer,
It's been long Pucelle.

A glimpse of the unseen, a façade cleft;
There will I see you, yonder which thy beauty encrypts.

Colours in my eyes; like rain
as it drizzles, verses in vain;
Thoughts upon layering vines
of prosetry; a delightful hymn.

More than a picture; a metaphor:

A dismay of one's own fancy,
Prismatic one would say; vibrant-
ly laced strings trilled, on a fancy;
Whimsical: clinquantly fervent,

Or so one would say; gracing,
Painting cliques; of colours
of places upon themselves;
As a canvass wild wandering,

Upon the world in its charming flatter.

Unlike I, one bound deeply; enfettered
gladly in between dimly shades of two.

"A mixture of velvety crimson and deep royal violet."

Love’s soother, sweeter than all lyre’s thrall,
Hark the lullaby held it captive, lest all sirens fall…

O sweeting!
Sang the wind unto me,
Lacking stature, crimsoned complexion,
My wishful gaze upon one…

Shades of affection, a dye hight red,
Sparked living as I gasped, “O yonder boon !”
Harbouring lust, yet gallantly shining;
Enchanting I, my soul deeply ensnared,

Yonder eyes, colourful or maybe of a shade?
One upon worlds, fair gleaming masquerade,
Myriad in colours, the fountain of all shades,
All but one it gleams, ‘tis yonder shade yclept fade…

Like Mab granting night’s pseudo-heaven,
Thou art to me my fairy, verily Mab; O amabilis!
Mine velvet noon, whose night’s fair and fancy,
O fair muse! La pucelle d’Alfheim, I flatter thee!

Flattering personas, all of the fairest,
Though one was lost, of all which I know not,
Wilt thou? Indulge me in those, thy full façade?

Solely and only upon yonder radiance,
Hovering in awe as it dims,
The moonlight, as it shuts the fireflies,
And the butterflies fade white lo!

Allow me to look,
To fixate my gaze upon thee,
To let my heart stray,
Just for once in all times myriad….

Because I see thee flaring red,
Violet too, as it shimmers,

In which I failed to see,
A star thought fallen,
One that escaped me,
And too, my conscience shaken….

“And how I’d wish to hold you tight,
To have your all mine, just for the night….”

The very strand of your rivering crown,
As it entangles hearts and souls,
One dash too many, leaving damsels frown,
Envious, as all their knights growl….

“The first sight of thee, yonder hair as it flows,
As it compels winter’s first sunrise….”

Grant me entrance,
Paint me audacious, if you will;
To have not a mere peek,
But thy naked soul I seek!

Verily, how I’d wish to stay,
Before yonder glistening complexion,

One elegant, another meekly laced,
Innocence, complexity, and beauty,
Verses, songs, and poetry,
O lovely, how it leaves me entranced!

“Thy very eyes, jewels a pair, the brightest of all.”

And as it brought me deep,
Far under fairly steep,
Sweetly enticing, it tempts,
Lusciously as it draws,

Nearer towards I; O guilty bliss!

As I fell enchanted to its scent,
To its vermillion charm I vent,
How red and velvety!
O how I’d wish to feast upon it!

“I vow to consume it whole, bitter sweet to its very
pith. Thy lips verily, Scarlet’n glossy!”

As I would see the whole of you,
Violet as it engulfs, thy ***** a hand,
And deep onyx as it taints thy stand,
A fair column as it braces; O grassy font!

Fair'n sleek, allow me to quench my thirst within!

"As I would keep you on sight, I'll etch it through. Your very stature, yonder silhouette divine."

As I bid thee fair well,
Eternal in a night myriad....

"My lady in violet,
Tonight, you look gorgeous."

Pavonine I.

Masquerade flawless, pride a squire,
Pavonine I, as I gleam in fear,
As light truer revealed; 'twas hubris,
A charade clichéd from one, unwise;

As it plays, as it rings,
When it stops, a tasteful clings,

Again.

Pavonine I, twice the beauty,
Once is inconstant, compare me;
To gold, or maybe jester's fee?
A pouch for ye, two more for me;

Another.

As I would weave you a piece;
One entwining, two forgotten creeds,
Pavonine I; a serenade for you,
Though coarse; like a rug putrid,

A blight.

Pavonine I; as it would sound as rotten,
As always if only I would-

Let it never end, remind me.

'Twas a hand away, or maybe closer,
A touch away, or even closer;

Maybe just a finger?

As it glistens in awe,
Its unruly crown's prowess,
What was deemed a flaw,
I though bid it flawless!

Its very core seamless,
Vermilion; and too its crest shimmers!
As the sky paints verdant,
Though I once deemed it cerulean,

And far ahead, though I feel you near,
As I reach out; a hand to the glittering air,

Thin'n cold, the wind as it sways near,
As always; as it sparkles near,


Far away as it resides ahead,
'Tis always, a hand away....

'Twas the day of the flowers,
When I had it dawned upon;
A boon dulcet; as it captivates,
The heedless I, to remain un-fond,

Of what was presented in felicity,
Gracefully in its poise, as it flickers,

Not under, but in the presence of

The night's soothing confidant,
As it would witness the myriad,
In its ever vigilance; as I would too,
Betroth myself to this very word:

Remember.

Much to my dismay, yours truly;
One concluding apology; if you will,
To the endearing you, much verily,
To the one in which I would confide;

My fiery petal,
One to have me stark,

And one to ignite my spark.