Words have lost their meaning over time
The more the same phrases are used
Over and over and over again
The less their context matters
Like staring at a word for too long
It becomes nothing
The more we throw meaningful sentiments
Into a grammatical machine
Moulding them into a form
Most befitting
The more inevitable
Their fate
As feed for the fatuous void.

But what if words
Had no meaning in the first place?
Their context absurd
Relative to our personal emotions
We communicate
In perceptions
Condensed down
Into a finite set of sounds and symbols
How strange
We are all subject to this
It is inescapable
Words have our truths caged
Indefinitely.

I could say everything many romantics have already put into words
But that would be lazy and impertinent
Their semantics have dissolved
Worn from view
No matter how many voices
Echo what was once
A truth in history.

For my love, I would cast aside all language
For my soul is constantly dancing to a song
Of melodious candour
My mind wanders
Into his room
So warm and musty
And there
I am held
All at once
Words escape me
No
I escape words.

It is impossible
For you
To comprehend the way you make my heart move
Whenever I am in your company
But it is there
It exists
It is truth
I pray
You feel it too
Because then these phrases
I’ve strung together
Needn’t be spoken.

Poetry lives
To materialise our senses
Here is mine
So let us remove the shackles of our language, my love
And dive naked
Liberated
Into a world
Where only pure intuition resides.

You lie
Perfectly
Openly
Honestly
Upon my bed
And while
I want nothing more
Than to curl up
Beside your flawless form
I fear
My essence
Sooted with vice
Rough with coarseness
Would tarnish
The sublime glint
You flaunt
So innocently
But
I know
The feeling is mutual
For perfection
Is arbitrary.

Diamonds
They reflect
Their effulgence
Is no weakness
For nothing can cut
Or blunt
Their brilliance
And I suppose
This is the lame
Metaphor
I have reverted to
As a demonstration
Of my ineffable
Vertible
Love for you.

If only I were a painting;
a majestic work of art,
adored by all,
confined to the safety
of my canvas home.

If only my form
were a mass of oil shades;
intertwining, swirling, rippling.
My, how everyone would swoon
at my brilliance.

But, I tell a sad story.
And the critics prey
upon my light,
when a slight darkness
remains.

Like gold to a magpie,
they pick,
for my dazzling
and beguiling radiance
is too much an invitation,
when all I glow
highlights my worn edges.

My shadowy past
comes to the fore,
and I cannot retreat
into my home,
when there is none.
Everyone stares.
And I’m now careful
of my wishes.

To be more
than the shame
staining my skin
a pallid shade
of grey,
would be more
than the dreams,
painting the windows
of my mind
with a rosy tint,
of hope
of chance;
it would be
all.

But,
is this pinkish-haze
from the comfort
of reveries,
as I’m enveloped
in velvety corolla?
Or are these
the malignant,
sardonic
barbs,
that foretell
my fate
as a truthless soul
in an honest
reality?