Emotions stirred me;
Flew into me, burning me;
All that were dark were clear and pure to me
that inevitable day.

And the mere sight of you
Consumed me, tasted to me
Like the stars;
You stole my sanity
and never returned it back.

My tunes, all melt
In the light of the moon;
The light in your eyes
That told me of your tale
and your history.

You, when the skies turned gray;
Welcomed me in felicity
That day, that very day;
You were a friend of daylight
and ecstatic spirits.

You, when March ended,
Made me long for more;
For a sigh of love and desire,
Invite and touch me,
Caress me through your lyrics.

Your moonlight and my poetry;
Tear the skies in haste;
Splitting the universe in two.
Our universe, who knows nothing
about love.

Your verses, and my words;
Expound all songs sweet in the air;
The most serene, yet the farthest;
Almost the hardest
that I cannot yet play.

Your silence, that addresses me
With utter clarity
Touches my heart and my days;
Speaking to me
of these powerful feelings.

Your light, that flows through me
Enchants me throughout the day
and the sordid night;
'Tis cold but all I feel is warmth
when I am in your arms.

My moonlight has died tonight;
The golden day has vanished.
Dark thunder has blocked the light;
My lyrics have been blemished.

You are a moon away from me;
You cannot afford me the stars.
You let grief batter me;
You brought me sickly scars. 

All that appear to me are sordid;
I understand not their words.
Although my feelings are valid;
I am trapped between two worlds.

My woes have made me fragile;
My mind too, refuses to behave.
To behold, to be sweet, meanwhile;
To crave the songs it cannot have.

In my chamber, I feel insane
As these thoughts take over.
My lover, once a sweet man
His passion and lights are over.

Love brings me tears;
Love brings me woes;
Love brings me fears;
Love brings we wounds.

There is one light
that holds me tight;
embraces my mind,
enchants my days,
cleanses my wounds.

There is one person
That led my soul to me,
My unnoticed words,
My untold thoughts;
Until such scars completely faded.

I have left my barren days,
And risen to the moon,
Hearing the trees pursue the night,
Giving the songbirds what they hope for;
Until they fall in love again.

I have discarded my ragged wings,
And flown fondly to the stars,
Tethered to my heartbreak no more,
Until it only hears me offshore;
Away to an unmarked distance.

My heart, fondly, gazing at thee,
Those soft miracles in thy hazel eyes;
Trying to peruse all things alike
in those powerful shapes
that never fail to speak to me.

Up The Hollywood Hills
Shall we wander, hand in hand;
Treading the floors of bare soil,
At those sweet magnificent hours
Not even a harmless night shall find.

Up above the skies
There are brown beams of sunlight,
All calling out your name,
Ripe in their own cheerfulness,
Rising beyond all our nightmares.

None shall scare me
That you stand by my side,
England is now a distant memory,
A shrinking whisper;
A drained existence of the past.

None touches my heart
with painful grace, nor grief;
A tearful farewell has come;
And you are here,
Being my new love and my poetry.

With your love,
I shall always conquer more.

I love thee.

Imagine your head in my lap;
Feeling the southern moon take shape;
Watching skies bleed into the night
and sunset breathe clear moonlight.

Imagine talking all night long;
Tuning in to my poetic song;
Feeling with thee, such a bond so strong;
All our world starts where we belong.

No secrets, no false fantasies;
Just innocence and pure poesies,
And love bringing us the new truth
That we are ready for a new youth.

No dream, no fear, no noise;
All I want is your touch and kiss;
Entwine yourself with mine in bliss
by the river in a summer breeze.

Imagine your flesh against mine;
Passionate desire in our minds
Kissing you by the morning dew;
Making more than a sweet love with you.

Imagine yourself in my arms;
That I might become your charm;
That I might shield you from harm;
That I might keep you safe, and warm;

Imagine yourself by my side;
Your lips be my today's delight;
Your eyes be those graceful leaves
Your touch be how I love, and live.

Imagine yourself in my chest;
Your laughter lulls me to rest;
Your comfort makes me tough;
Your presence becomes my love.

You are like a shadow;
One that’s passed away.
One that is long gone;
A creature of the grave.

You are like a ghost;
Belonging to another dimension;
But owning half of me;
Distracting my entirety.

You are like a spirit;
You caught my mind, my heart, my soul;
You transfixed me that day;
You snatched my love that night.

You are like a witch;
A playful, evil sorcerer;
A stubborn enchanter;
A lovely beast.

You are like the moon;
The love of the universe;
The one you once wanted to have;
The wine of your own being.

You are like the night sky;
I cannot see where you sleep;
Nor touch your edgeless bed;
Nor feel your heartbeat.

You are like the sun;
Once winter comes you’ll die;
Shining with blood and heat;
Dying of your own flesh.

You are like the breeze;
And breezes end too fast;
Stirring me up tensely;
Ending all abruptly.

You are a confusion;
I do not know what held you back.
Still I cannot see today,
though I feel you are here.

You are a depression;
Even today, that I think of you;
And the melancholy Russia;
I can see no-one else but you.

You are a chain;
A lock that holds me still;
A forgotten crush;
A tremor that brings tears.

You are a doubt;
An unfinished love story.
I wish I could write about you;
But all that existed shan’t be true.

You made me feel.
You made me hope.
You made me smile.
You made me believe.

I became real.
I became blood.
I became flesh.
I became bone.

You amused me.
You charmed me.
You sought me.
You fetched me.

I went awake.
I went alive.
I got dressed.
I made my way.

You took my hands.
We stared in silence.
We had each other.
We longed for more.

The day went green.
We turned back home.
Twilight had come.
Daylight had gone.

We kissed in haste.
We could not breathe.
We were on the floor.
Drowned by the noise.

You crawled away.
You slipped in haste.
You braved the night.
You walked out the door.

There was a storm.
There was vagueness.
There was madness.
There was flatness.

There were thoughts.
There were doubts.
There were falls.
There were dives.

There were pictures.
There were scenes.
There were griefs.
There were nightmares.

There were fires.
There were quakes.
There were breaks.
There were tears.

Then I knew it.
You ran from me.
You shunned me.
You lied to me.

You drew a hole.
You scarred me.
You crushed me.
You destroyed me.

I ran away.
I hit a town.
I drank my blood.
I shrank my soul.

I slept for months.
Perhaps for years.
My head on my pillow.
My hair on my back.

I lost conscience.
I lost my soul.
My weird humanity,
My sensibility.

I went awake then.
My sight red, my blood cold.
My head throbbed, my neck burned.
My chest roared, my thirst raged.

My skin grew bold.
My veins turned white.
My nails swelled up.
I was immortal.

I traced the weather,
I sniffed the air.
I smelled human blood;
Borne by its desire.

I flew through the woods.
I floated through leaves.
I skipped the jungle.
I came across hunched windows.

I heard shrieks in satin.
I sipped her blood and meat.
She, by the cries of her man,
Begging me to free her.

I saw the terror in her eyes;
The tremor on her wet hair
The trembles in her voice.
Yet I drank still.

I watched sour breath come out;
Her lifelessness in my arms.
She, a woman of insult;
A saint of disgrace.

I saw her hold his *****;
My past lover, in my sight.
Gripping her dying life,
Her putrid last embers.

I saw last strings of breath
Tying her down, pulling her;
As she screamed and kicked
And I drank and licked.

Their love parting, their hearts paling
I found pleasure in killing;
I found laughter and sound.
What is but mirth in blood?

Their love turning into horror;
Gasping and yelling, eyes rolling
Pulling the last straw of lives
of those most ordinary.

Their love turning to fear of me,
I, The Queen of Revenge,
for my immortality,
for failing my youth.

Their love, turning so ungodly,
The only way is to please me,
A way that they can never see
A way that they think is lost.

Their love, turning to my hatred
for burning my charms,
for singing my songs,
in a note less tender.

Their love, turning to my revenge
for draining my soul,
driving me out of life—
turning me out of love.

Far, far away from you
From the very love that was true;
It has been a tormented night
Pierced by hatred and sliced moonlight

None of our sleeps have gone;
Yet without thee, all feels alone
The birds sing unsung cries tonight;
Not having breathed you since daylight.

Far, far away from you
That summer sunshine has turned sour;
There has not been one love, anew
I float and weep and drink hours.

None of our pasts have died;
None of our shared secrets have lied;
The earth we greased stays deep,
The soil we passed falls fast asleep.

All that is felt is blood;
The days that pass shall become hard,
Without you here, in mind and thoughts,
To forget you, as I was once taught.

All that is held is too late;
These drained months have made me hate,
The fallen mornings without thee;
Even my heart has run from me.

It has been an unspoken chart;
An utterance with no discourse.
Bereft of love, even of heart,
Of remorse, of voiced force.

It has been a mouthed scene;
With no flesh to be sensed, nor seen,
With no substance, nor enmity,
With no merits, nor sanctity.

When we loved, we were one art;
You were my king, my literature.
I thought we would not be apart;
Your wit and madness made me sure.

When we were lovers, we strolled there;
You held my hand and kissed my hair.
We blew wrath and toil with our youth,
Hiding left and right, north and south.

When we embraced, we were the same;
The moors shone brightly by our names.
Upon our shoes were trained mornings,
Telling branches and leaves and barks to sing.

When we had kissed, we were gone;
Perhaps in dreams, we had been shown
That this unjust love was not to last
but would mean godly in the past.

When we headed home, we turned eyes
Our heads and nerves had been but lies
We mingled only one flesh, in bed
With brown veins, and blood in shades.

When we hurtled north, we did alter
The gentle dream that had parted;
Our hands, destined for sweeter finds;
Our souls, enchanted not by minds.

When we turned back, we could all see
That such dreams could not have brought
my skylight, my tantrum, my poesy;
A riddle I would not have thought.

When we partook, we could realise
That riveting facts hid paradise
Making it the right turn to laugh;
Finding the chosen one to love.

There are red storms inside me;
All these, in a drained solitude.
Pains, need not exceed to feel;
but even to breathe, I feel ill.

There was a child, there were stars--
yet I have not yet been born.
What might they expect from me;
When what they see is just sanity.

Normalcy, which I think absurd
That they condemn me as awkward;
I do not conform to their scars,
They do not dear me in their hearts.

Mornings are hard, and afternoons;
that I feel home at lonely nights.
Their mighty skies are unjust to me,
They ruptured my arts, my poetry.

Nights are home to my lullabies;
Unheard songs, unspoken colours.
My pride, which paints and writes no more
Hath never felt loved before.

These scars, that once threw me
Continue their flamboyant dance.
The London streets are no longer;
I have been left in here, forever.

These holes, that have corrupted me
Craving for my souls inside out;
I am not loved, not a beloved
Life has had of my love enough.

The swarming moon, and lilac sky
Shall mean no more when I die;
All around me is commonness,
No madness, no rains, no happiness.

The sheltered sun and dire summer
May they thrive in their jolly days;
May love bloom again when I leave,
and when I’m gone, shall still it live.

What is there to love;
What remains for me?
What it means to feel
What it takes to leave?

What it does to forget
What it takes to recall;
What does a voice mean--
Why does it ring often?

What might love be
What hurts--but what does not?
What has pain made us
What wound has left us?

What does paint say
What do words write?
Tell me, tell me now--
I do not know how.

Why shall we stay
at the end of the day;
What made us leave
What does it mean to live?

What to promise after pain
What to seek after regrets,
To laugh after tears;
To see when rain clears.

What does time keep
What does it let go;
What went loose, went stray
What shall die then?

What does voice tell
What do thoughts do?
Why do minds believe
Why do eyes see?

Why our hands, not feet
What our hearts, not chests
Why does blood flow;
Why do feelings grow?

Why seasons change
Why do years go?
When all stops at night
Why is it hard to know?

I am a child, a little friend
Confused by love and pain;
Too much darkness, and villains
Altered, forlorn, inane.

I am a child, knowing not
Bitter secrets and retorts,
What fantasies mean--
What they have been.

I am a child, a small fiend;
From seeing much disdain
All around me was fake
From a life no-one would take.

I am a child, a rogue hand
I envy their lyrical land;
I wish I knew more sound
Before my years float aground.

I am a child, a mythic
I am unsatisfied with poetics
I used to sing a lyrical song;
Not knowing it was wrong.

I am a child, a cynic
All that is left is antics;
Yet they shall not want to see me
I am petrified here, lonely.

I am a child, a breath
Such a breath shall die;
Even years later, that
When blue fills the sky.

I am a child, a wand
My magic has not betrayed
I want it today, at hand
Then it came to be yesterday.

I am a child, a sonnet
All my paint was in mad red;
The color of roses and dread,
The one love to be met.

I am child, a lover
Although love takes forever;
Who hurries me to say--
Who cannot feel me today.

I am a child, a writer
My fantasies last as ever;
But not knowing to write
I shall learn over the night.

I am a child, a poet
I have travelled wide roads
The roads that heavens gave;
My mother used to have.

I am a child, a star
There seems to be knots in hearts;
I heard a myth, a story
Which are not always pretty.

I am a child, a moon
I hath to understand soon;
What love sees, what perils shed
A tale too swift to be read.

I am a child, a heart
I am with whom night has parted;
I live now, a day at once
I live and play under the sun.

I am a child, a love
That love itself shan’t be enough
I can see that as brightly;
The world has none more to see.

I am a child, a life
Lives are now bland and rife
With all chains and darkness;
No joys stay, nor brightness.

I am a child, a truth;
To look deep in my youth
And find that love hath gone;
Like a morning rose that drowned.

I am a child, heaven;
The whole world feels like hell
And in no time shall dwell--
My poetry is my last haven.

I am a child, paradise--
In such worlds, only live lies;
Love is a fault, a failure
And hatred is the cure.

I am a child, a triumph
With a victory in my doom;
And when faith is gleaming,
I start brightly singing.

I am a child, a fear
They fear that love could still be here
They fear that I could be heard;
They fear I could conquer the world.

I am a child, a fair
And which goodness is unfair?
When all spells hate, why shall I care,
Fools and wicked ran at my dare;

I am a child, a fire
The song of triumph is just, not dire;
My joys are near, closer--
Love is to dwell again, ever.

A tribute to my favourite vampire duo of all times, Edward Cullen and Isabella Swan.  

With a heart soft as the moon
With a light breath on fire
I fly soundly across the sky;
I leap from time to space.

In the weight of the morning;
At the longing time of nights
I hear murmurs in the distant;
Hoards of sirens, churning deaths.

I jump about all the dark trees;
Searching for the blood in thee
When thou may perch ‘cross the river
Damp hair glossing thy neat forehead.

When thou read alone, and just
Recite lines of dried sarcasm
Pondering in tears, all over again
Until nights drain away in pain.

When thou stand alone, and hear
My cold footsteps are sealed close
To lie about, and drink from thee
Feeling triumphant, breaking free.

I hunt, I tear every safe flesh
Thy stoical screams sound fresh;
I paint rude love, dread and sweet pains
All wild in thy wavering voice.

The stutter, the wail be gone
All that be left is death alone
Adrift; devoid of branched lives
Reeking of dust and sand and wrath.

The veins, the fleeting beat is torn
All consumed by the whirring nights;
A new vampire hath just been born
A birth of the devil, the dark skies.

I turn to thee, soaked in temper--
Those angelic eyes unborn wonder;
Thou kiss me in a mythical embrace
With a heat only I can see.

I bathe in thee, drowned in red light
Feasting on love on a summer’s night
Thy Grecian soul lain quiet and sweet,
A rose of lavished, pleased chasteness.

I am burnt in thee, drawn to the moors
Thou, drifting to me lyrical months
So as to spend times in utter youth
and feel hours with a fluent grace.

I am born to thee, to my heart
The earths, grounds that are now ours
To spend paces at wanted hours
To be a young vampire again.

I am bound to thee, to define me
That I might love ardently;
To live with thee by my side;
To turn days into a cold night.

I am true to thee, to be mine
That I cherish love and lyrics;
To be more, to have enough--
To replace all cries with love.

I could not find love inside thee;
I could not seek, I could not live.
I did not have the strength to leave;
that when I went, a wound broke me.

I could not bear light upon thee;
You went straight, far away from me.
I could not get inside of you;
to make you see how I was true.

Goodbye to thee now, at last
Your sun and fire have burned to dust,
You have dispersed into thin air,
Unheard, unseen, untouched, unfair.

Goodbye to thee, while time is hard  
Your days were left in the dim past,
When I wake again, you must leave
I have enough reasons to live.

Goodbye to thee, and forever
Though it still feels like yesterday
When Coventry, from my chamber
Frosted white on scarred wintry days.

Goodbye to thee, that it is now
I have forgot your song somehow
Fed and left to my tomorrow;
and such a light day has not grown.

Goodbye to thee, and written pain
Through all such grief and annoyed rain
Through all suspecting space and colds
By the toxic wounds my heart holds.

Goodbye to thee, and the white lies
You have attached to all the skies
Might never rest in peaceful sleep;
Their thinned sockets shall always weep.

Goodbye to thee, to white lilies
Grown dusks on York’s rivers and seas
Retreating to my Northern star;
Whilst distant, nights dwell not far.

Goodbye to thee, to scarcity
Lives lacking roses and kindness,
Love of bleakness and enmity
Hearts of unborn happiness.

Goodbye to thee, the whole of you;
To arise, and embark myself anew
To the land of a thousand lakes--
A love story our hearts shall take.

I abandon all tears;
My conscience seeks peace.
My wholeness has gone;
Gone like my faith, alone.

The youth and serendipity
The blood that breathed in me
Now turning into wrath;
My coined life is virile and mad.

What is around me;
All lost in promiscuity;
Here, there shall be no heaven
Here, love has no words—nor passion.

Who speaks about me,
To understand or see me;
All are sinking into shrapnels,
And the lonesome heat feels like hell.

All is part of dark tunnels,
Channeling out into brown seas,
Living by unseen funnels
Unfelt by the breeze.

All is not blind, but sad
Shrivelling in bold air,
Their youths, I cannot wed
But lonely nights are fair.

I withdraw all affairs;
That they shall subside
And blend into those lights,
Those I have never cheered.

I hold my breath anew
I have been here to the core,
The lenient feelings that knew;
I should not stay once more.

On a wintry morning back then,
I met thy handsome eyes again;
Wand'ring close to blinding blue lights
Looking as lovely as cold nights.

On a wintry morning like that,
I walked' fast as charms could have made;
Eyeing thee there sent my cheeks red;
Filling my ***** with hot sweat!

Thou were glossed in a black jacket;
Striped leather boots, and a brown shawl!
With hands locked tight in both pockets;
onto the sleepy moors thou rolled.

Then in one breadth of lazy breath,
Thou caught my shades among those groves;
Thy charm as immortal as death;
Thy spell as eternal as love.

To be here, to be there, and not to be;
   Thou hath the whole rivers inside of me,
Thou art a night, a lonely sunny day;
   That hath melted my souls away.
To be thy blood, thy lover, thy asylum;
   To dwell within thee, to become thy poems.
Thou hath carried all my dried wounds away;
   Thou art meant for me, and I shall stay.

Their peaceful songs, too much noise;
   Titled feuds, crowned falsehoods,
My homeland, unknown to my youth;
   Stealing my sanity, my warmed voice.
Their music too, from a broken home;
   Telling me they would ne’er come;
My hometown, yet foreign to me;
   Adrift in bulk, losing my poetry.

To be here, to live, but not to see;
   Yet to be unchained, and break free,
Thou art a yard, a bush, a pear tree;
   Thou yield the whole love inside of me,
Thou stirred the birth of my presence;
   Thou breathed love to my concerns.
Thou art my reverence, my faith;
   Thou revoked my disgrace, my hate.

Their masterpiece, vainly serene;
   When they could sing, I was not seen;
Too common, like the youth about us
   Not knowing when life could go past.
Today shall end, but merely so
   They could not smell yesterday, no;
Nor shall their hard grieves glance further,
   Now, everlastingly, forever.

I long to be in tales faraway;
   That they shall not see me in today;
Not in winter, nor the heat of June;
   Not in daylight, nor under the moon.
Not in water, nor stark frost;
   They could not see me under their rose;
Then I could break free, I could see you
   To tell you about the truth, to give you—my love.

One island is too grey to me;
   To the southern edge of Earth;
If I said I could sail for thee;
   Would thou be my tree, my hearth?
But not to be here, ever and again;
    To clear my soul of their sold pain,
To be alone, but I could be fine;
    To head to the North with my mind.

One soil thought she was too charming;
    Nor that I knew them, that morning,
And in spring, their snarky heirs
    Bowed down to *** and stark roses;
None of what I did look fair,
    Nor the clean spruce of my prose.
Everywhere I went, just the ground
    Grinning kindly at my crusted sounds.

One land was too high, and glamour
    Encapped the heights of its odour;
Encompassing the love I had, and here
    This is the land of birth, but hear—
Love is felt nowhere close to me, so
    I shall be bound to the other I know;
I shall launch my sails, and my voyage
    Departs at time’s coming of age.

One ground became too proud, and he
    Lifted himself off the myriads of me;
The rebel, the judge, the jubilant
    The only consolation I wanted;
He could not catch in me, my sanctity
    And all love putrefied, and died.
To whom, that I became, still a mystery
    A waste, a wailing, a soiled story.

To run free, to breathe away from here
   To become the whole calls I hear;
Being the roads with stars and sunlight
   By the rosebuds of the Northern Light.
To be the prominent in me, and to thee
   That I come home, every day and night;
To be free to love, and blindly sing
    Until dawn comes to force, on chaste mornings.

To come closer, to be with you
    To drift away from wrong to true;
And call my love back again, from the woods
    Planted wild in mists and dreamful shadows.
To call you home, by the green fields
    With careened paths and gravel shields;
To be the poet again, the one I have—
    To embrace all that I once left.

To be thy finger, thy wrist, thy face;
   To be sole white and pure of lace;
To be the accessories of thy dreams;
   To be the wife of thy white nights.
When thou heard the frost, and screamed;
   My nights went more fearful then they seemed,
Too much fate and moist, poorly blended;
   My nightmares then ne’er ended.

To be the living, the door, the house;
   To drench the desires thou aroused,
To be the winter, the lilac to behold;
   To be felt as my love goes too bold,
And not ignored as I go beyond;
   Not to be halted, be scorned, be torn,
I have loved every day, every night—
   Then I have dreamt of your bluest sight.
  
To cherish my breath, my air, my chest;
   The living power of all our flesh,
The hungriness, but knowledge of my heart
   Not to take our exchanged poems apart;
For I have played my part, and kept my love
   For you, and as here ‘tis not enough;
I have loved, and unloved again
   My heart hath been a scorching pain.

To swim in this image of thine, and see
    Which memory I shall keep to me;
In which my arts shall come to presence
    From noon to night, and prevalent;
In which t’ere is only omnipresence
    With luminous pages, and their scent;
Too ambiguous too deny, clear to hate
    They shall admire it, though ‘tis late.

To be the vine, and grapes of thy yard
    To be the fine fruits of toil, so hard;
To be the last one to read the sky, that
    I shall still embrace, to the last.
Not to be here, in that life again;
    Only the sorrows and dramas of pain,
I shall soar for a greater gain;
    Feeding off clouds, drinking the rain.

To be the tales, rhythms of my heart;
    To admire from far away,
And unite back again when ‘tis time;
    All those cascades of madness and solitude;
Now, all smaller poesies shall rise and rhyme;
   Calling the same hymns and magnitude;
I shall be there, and not long now—
    I’ll stand still, and not flinch somehow.

To be the dress, the fashion of my love;
    My feelings now imitate the skies,
All emotions are moderate, and enough
    My heartbeat shall tell no lies;
Then, all torn sonnets cross my mind;
    At that time though, thou shall be mine;
I shall be there soon, tomorrow—
   Wait for me there, as thou shall know.

To be the kind, the temperate of my heart
   To be the pen and the poem, the bard;
All notions are justified, and seen
    It shall be autumn that I arrive in;
When, all stanzas clearly written
    And all workings exotic and firmed;
At that time though, thou shall see—
   All the loving and excitement in me.

To be the warmth, the sustained cold
    And the reason my sight still beholds;
All thoughts are visible, and bearable
    All daydreamed paths grow’n feasible;
That, all visions notably bound
    Thou shall embrace my tones and sounds;
With graceful moves, lithe and sleek
    I cometh to love thee, every day of the week.

To be the charm, the one in thy arms
    I shall surrender to Midnight’s swarms;
And be the one for thee, for the night
   Over all brief and lengthy sights;
There, holding thee all winter and summer
   A destination that lasts forever;
At that time soon, thou shall love me
   And my presence of eternity.

To be the destiny, on carpeted nights
   That magic works through our frights;
Making fears but a buoyant gift,
   And the beauty of the night so deep.
Holding me, lulling thyself to sleep
   A slumber to remember, too keep.
Thy florid hair falling into my face;
   Thy locks flirting with my embrace.

To be the envisioned, the right
   To be thy illusion, thy envied night;
And be the one who shall not fail
   I shall crumble out of my wooden shell;
To throw myself into that golden mark
   That becomes thee, oft’ by fall’n sparks;
To come with boughs of joy, and laugh;
   To fulfill thee with all my love.

I felt your touch, I felt you here;
None was clearer than your presence;
With so much clarity, I dreamt;
Feeling your grasp, hearing your name.

No sound is lost, I am still sane;
Your rain, your steps, all in my pain;
The sparkling storms you cast;
The love we had, that did not last.

Within my arms, you are still cold;
Your frozen pictures remain bold;
And your puzzles have haunted me;
Teasing my frazzled fantasies.

Within my heart, you are still tears;
That you remain as pallid fears;
You said none to my lonely nights;
Silent to faint signs of delights.

Within my health, you smell like death;
I loved you once, hence now too late;
That even poetics may not see;
The reason for me, to love thee.

Within the winds, you grow like rage;
Not assembled for youth and age;
A toxic to living beings;
A disease to wondrous mornings;

Within fate, you are the fault;
There stays no reason to behold;
To bear these silenced tears for thee
All have no more reasons for me.

Within love, you are the sin;
Gliding away, not to be seen;
And overnight, you were then gone
Leaving my unread poems, alone.

Too much noise, too much misery;
    Fake beauty, false flattery;
Feigned tears, faint hearts;
    Mock presents, dainty pasts.
Too much singing, too much song;
    Far too empty, too wrong.

Too regular, too feminine;
    Too much constancy seen.
Too insincere, too blind;
    Too raucous to one’s mind.
Unhearing, unloving;
    Unknowing, unseeing.

Inconsistent, ravaged, savage;
    Not aware of youth and age.
Not knowing sins are fatal;
    Not knowing worlds call chaos.
Not seeing lives are mortal;
    Not seeing value, nor loss.

Too defined, too thin, too fair;
    No curious touch nor flair;
Not jubilant, nor merciful;
    Not knowing arts are plentiful.
Not voice, nor titles, nor vice;
    Not pictures, nor pride, nor lies.

Too soothing, too tedious;
    Too apparent, too obvious;
Too gracious, too grainless;
    Not an emblem of happiness;
Not distinctive, nor charming;
    Not distinguished, nor loving.

Too engaged, too dim, too forgetful;
    Too separate, too disgraceful;
Too priceless, too sensuous;
    No realness is to them, wondrous;
Too unbecoming, too wishful;
    Too known, too gay, too sinful.

Too delighted, but evil to me;
    Those boasting beauties of thee;
I am not part, nor flesh of thine;
    I live with the voice in my mind;
I love in silence, in seclusion;
    Only mirth salves my delusion;

Too sparkling, but mean still;
   Unknowing towards those I feel;
I cannot be, nor shall I be;
   I shall not place my soul in thee;
Thy voice remaineth loved still;
   But to love thee, I never will.

I would hate climbing, standing here
Straining myself that you would hear;
Amongst the blanks across the banks;
Atop timber, roofs, wooden planks,
About the soreness of green grass;
About their love, about their hearts.

I would loathe the spine of the bridge;
Nearing the bumpy, soapy ridge;
I might let hold of my life, now;
By the screeching teas and willows;
To part my way, to say goodbye;
The meaning of love was, to die.

Look at the flies across the night;
Alight by shadows of mights;
She might tease you, and dream of you,
Her love may pierce your sorted truths.
What am I though, to your romance;
Am I a secret to your stance?

Look at the rain, the Northern Lights;
The hopes I had long held, upright;
For your unknowing heart, my sweet,
I had loved you in one heartbeat;
Watch! The bronze gardens of my love,
For you here; for yourself, enough.

The humming moon, the skirted breeze;
Twinkling like melancholy bliss;
Heaved into me when I saw you,
At that moist night, before I knew
You were entrenched in her, in she
I would love; but you were not free.

I greeted the rose, “The brief night runs
In rubble and tosses and rain.”
The rose replied, “Then go and shun
Those who have left thee in their gain.”
She would stay awake to the sun,
And I would sleep, and love in vain.

I cried to the moors, “Your air smells just
The fine ground water of the pool.”
The green grass hummed, “Your heart must
Be breaking; your voice is fretful.”
The little waves said this would pass
But my mind was far too hateful.

He was coming, my dove, my dear;
Never had charms been about here;
And yet he came late, though was near,
He was late to my youth and tears,
The larkspur, and the eagle learned
You were only a truth, to her.

He was panting, my sick, my ill;
Wandering the grounds that I could feel,
And beads of sweat separating him
From the health of mortals and dreams;
But on a night of jewels and pearls;
He pranced with drinks and other girls.

But he might not die, he might soon;
He might be idle to the moon,
That the universe must distract;
Forgiving what he shall yet take;
To be the joy of another—
This world is too unfair, ever;

But he might not seek, he might then;
He has not learned my shriveled song;
Like I have not been singing along;
Like I have been a music in vain,
Knowing your promise to her, sane;
I might just not have lived, by then;

There have been shredded, splendid tears
That were made dead, at times of night;
For years now, that they have been slain
I have strikingly shrieked in pain;
Shrinking into eternal rest;
I shan’t know the last days of West.

There have been shrugged, dusted fears
That were made mere, in ruins of love;
I cut my veins, and blood claimed clear
Striking my bones, bursting both halves.
I peered last at the weeping birds—
‘Till my last breath, I remained unheard.

To call you my past, my present
To embrace you as times last;
To drown in your recent moments
To drink in the love of your past.

To be the mist of your sunrise;
To be the dew of your music,
To be poetic, and not to be poetic;
To be the avant-garde of thy skies.

To delight you, to call you home;
To make you my Northern Light,
To hold you through my day and night;
To sail through you with my poems.

To be your lullaby in mind;
To call you my own, just mine,
To be your moon, my Toronto;
To be your winter, your snow.

I saw you among realms of light;
In everlasting radiance gleaming,
With those twinkling seraphs at night;
And pink sonnets in the morning.

I loved you at the first of sights;
More greatly than all yon loving,
With my desires wrapt in blue sighs;
With aurochs and angels singing.

You held me close with temptation;
And as a first love ne’er drowns,
You are my last destination;
The only one to love, alone.

You startled me with sensation;
You conquered me and my half,
Painting me and my vision;
Dazzling me and my love.

With smug delight have I loved thee;
With pride, with confidence.
With joy, with finery;
With hope, with a coincidence.

With tears have I wanted;
With feelings have I failed.
I was too young to have a wit;
To fall in love, from my shell.

Thou, strained outside the brook;
With glittery eyes glancing past;
Meeting mine, drawn to look;
Kneeling on the green grass.

Sensing me, my young fabric;
And the perfume of my love,
I was strong, yet too weak;
My love was keen and lunatic.

I grew awake at midnight hours;
But not that my heart ever slept,
Nearing to me, my quiet slumbers;
Thou came by to sit, and wept.

I grew idyllic, and sang;
Then thy voice rang through
The hot night, and sprang
On to my silent summer hue.

I looked at thee, and stumbled
Upon my own lulled, mumbling words;
How couldst a soul be so humbled
Amongst the busied human worlds?

I was the Mermaid; that was all
Nobody came to me but at nightfall;
But how couldst they be charmed by me?
The ivy thought, my name was awry

Inhuman, toxicated, amiss;
Never wouldst I deserve a kiss,
Not even one on my behalf;
I learned to love just behind the walls.

Those of the lake, before thou came;
And the grand of thine appeared in time,
For thee, that I wouldst feel the same;
Thou saw me through, called out my name.

Those of the water, as I had tasted;
With lilies and rosebuds to my right,
Oft’ at night, I swam to the surface
To the hauntingly fierce nights.

Love sounded sordid, that I knew;
I didst not believe it all anew,
Myths had it that thou wouldst not see—
Nor hear, nor hold any faith in me.

Love sounded true, in the heavens;
The human realms I imagined,
Not that of my brethren,
Not the one that I had seen.

Tales had it that thou could see;
For it wouldst be too much disgust,
To watch my deserted land, to be
In a love that wouldst not last.

But thou caught me in that lilac stream;
A stream filled with young lavenders,
And their naked, infatuated dreams,
West to my natural heavens, ever.

But thou didst, that thou listened;
Within my fears, thy eyes glistened,
And I couldst locate but the scars—
Those remnants pottering thy hearts.

That I wouldst dearly heal, my love;
An injury that had been buried;
The dismembered once enough;
The despaired of a heartbeat.

That I wouldst listen, as thou spoke;
To cure the devils of all shock;
To return thy heart to what should be;
To stir thy love just for me.

What if my hours pierced the night;
And injured me again tonight;
Wouldst thou be my lover still,
Be a danger to what I feel.

What if my lungs felt thy voice;
To send thee to a stern standstill;
From this cursed being, and heal;
To forget me, back in human bliss.

What if I console, and thou refuse;
What if thy world without my poems,
What is my chorus, is it of use?
What is the melody of my doom?

What if I dance to unborn stars,
What if I wished to heal thy scars,
What if we battled in all wars,
What if we loved with all our hearts?

And thou, lamenting there every night;
Listening to me ‘till sunlight;
And flew away on summer mornings;
To retreat more, on beloved evenings.

And thou, being the hymn of all roses;
The moss, the found, the lost;
Thou read to me, on those hot days;
Thou heard my words close, every day.

The stubborn dose of blue eyes;
Bewitching to the counting skies;
Resembling all my lonely nights,
Burning the wrong, turning all right;

That handful of red lips;
Scratching at my beds of tulips;
Like the scorching gloss of sunset;
Red but defined, just mad.

That hand, that flesh, those cheeks;
Mine in my mind and all those weeks;
My human friend, my love
Having him was solitude enough.

That kiss, that warmth, were fluid;
I had plenty of them, my sweet;
He smelled like the moon, my prince—
He was mine, he had been.

The lightning ruined it for me;
On a day of summer sunshine;
Clawing into the pure skyline,
Making all too broken to see.

The sun made its way, and killed
My shielding of all was displaced;
She struck the birch trees on the hill;
“T’is is not over,” she said.

She moved to the lake, and all—
Ran as waters moved on to fall;
Then she startled my lover, lazing
On my lap, flirting and singing.

And I heard his scream, his death
Approaching him from gurgling earth;
The sun prodded his life, his breath
Shrinking him into frosted dirt;

The sun shrieked in jubilance;
Enraging my disgusted stance;
Laying my lover’s tossed head;
I squeezed and whined, hoping for death;

A few hours passed, the sun won
Flocking to welcome dawn again;
The night watched dead, with air torn
Leaving me spread in passing pain.

Five minutes passed; the dawning air
A guiltless foul, but naïve and fair
Carrying her rose in a dead odour;
With a stained presence, emptied colour.

I was wicked, I was angered;
I rose from busted land, and water;
Dragging along my pointed soul
I stood unfazed; perched in the cold.

I clicked my fingers and opened blood;
Then dawn bled from its heart;
The wound, piercing its sonorous veins
Watching her out and about in pain.

I rubbed my palms, and thick streams
Shot at the sun’s paled surface;
I killed in arrays of white dreams,
I destroyed in horror, in haste.

I touched the ground, and strokes of mud
Launch their ways to the skies, out loud;
Washing all brown earth off summers,
And all its threats and sworn powers;

Around my arms were they;
Those humans, having none to say,
But to run, to their human lovers;
They couldst—and wouldst be together.

My immense rage bottled me,
And I ended those lovers to be;
Leaving the cold universe to my own
And my bloodied moors, my lake alone;

And I was there, that death passed by;
A curse that wouldst see me lie—
By the raised legend of the sky,
That I couldst **** then I wouldst die.

And I was there, that he came round;
My dying body that he found;
In a gone soul, a friction;
An oval ghost, an apparition.

And I lay there, with him;
Welcoming death to our dreams;
And our lips, in thrumming kisses;
By our dead hearts, dead impulses.

And I lay there, by his side;
Basking in the life of the night;
Blending our arts, our idyll—
Celebrating what we couldst feel.

And I slept there, with my whole;
I didst not feel all that was cold;
Running my hand through his bronze hair
All of a sudden; all felt fair.

And I lived there, with my love;
He was ever my spirit and laugh,
He was ever my sweet, my loving;
He was to me my everything.

In the sea of voices she remained silent;
Among the whining tunes, the screaming sounds.
She had always had a quiet soul;
She wept in the absence of anybody else;
Manned of her own will;
Laughed in her own freedom;
Loved in her silent heart.
She had faith in her own thoughts.
There were people she had not met for years,
There were those who had forgotten her,
There were those whom she had forgotten.
They brought this noise she had not comprehended;
The noise that had perforated her thoughts;
Punctured her vision;
Pricked her confidence;
Drugged her with poison.
She had never longed to look back;
This village had always been her nightmare
yet she had been compelled to return.
She had always preferred quiet time;
Her solitude, that she would feel free;
A seclusion, a noiselessness, a silence.
Surrounded by unsung melodies,
With her love for unwritten lines;
She would write poignant poems,
Dance to lively rhythms,
Live among scattered paint, and
be basked in her peripheral visions;
Her hearts touching the sweet roots of poetry
Swimming in the green arts they could not see.
Her arts were her honour, her triumph
As her fingers touched archaic poems;
But she found unjustness, danger in noise
That she had longed to go;
Not wanting  to hear their smug voice.
She would run away, she knew
and as she stayed, in the pouring seconds
Some talked to her, while some
Remained silent;
Some wept at her feet,
Some cursed her with hate,
Some pierced her ears with noise.
She remained silent still.
Now and ever.

Within the walls, I could hear
Those hums like they were near;
Hark! How the opulent skies
Fill with colours, cough up lies.

Within silence, I could listen
To dim words I had written;
And your breath by my side,
On a sweet autumn night.

Within the airs, their dramas;
All were stricken dormas,
I would have thee over;
Didst thou know where we were?

Within the wet nightfall;
About yonder blank hall,
I could feel twitching music,
Dancing to the flown week.

Within the burnt candle;
Thou be mine to ******,
To live, to bend to thee
Whilst youth’s last may scare me.

Within t’is solitude, love
Thou be more than enough;
These summers petrify me;
Peel my blood right out of me.

Within t’ese days, darling
Thou be the throne that rings
My mere haven of dreams;
Unlike their harried screams,

Within t’ese colds, my sweet
Shy me to thee, and read
The unsung of our fears;
Our abrupt weak tears.

Within t’is high snowfall;
May we meet, and house all,
May we herd the sublime,
May we slumber in time.

Within the dark, my frost;
Pick merely the black rose,
Lighten my most unsure;
Taint me, but keep me pure.

Within the insane gloss;
I knew my doors had closed,
My lyrics had made so wrong;
My poems, my lines, my songs.

Within the unsaid haze;
Memories in my face,
Their sobbing in such pain
I could not feel the rain.

Within the hoarse terror
Just like the sun before;
Thou come round to my room,
To sit, keep warm my poems.

Within the stiffened chords
Thou be the lyrics for;
Be May’s shard of light;
Make a way for its night.

Within the angered voice
Thou be the modest bliss;
Be such presence so quiet
Be thou the time, the first.

Within the adorned shades
Thou haileth from the West;
Enshrining flesh with mine,
Making true love so kind.

Within the adored love
Thou be given my half;
Thou be the lost way’s back
The first love I shall take.

What are the perks of speech?
My sound remains a low hum;
And tones make me numb,
Whilst noises bear signs of harm.

What are the perks of sound?
No speech may think twice,
No victory is vice, but wise—
Such tunes can hold sunrise.

What are the perks of light;
July has a chained melody,
And thus summer may not hear me,
Nor catch me close to the pear tree.

What are the perks of saying;
Out loud in grown daylight,
That reaches out not to the night,
Birthing only the skies, alight.

What are the perks of talking;
I am full of decayed words,
Alighted by unjust worlds,
That I can never be heard.

What are the perks of seeing;
Love slumbers in every part,
And resurrects until the last,
Enacted by a lonely heart.

What are the perks of living;
Dawning on me, but lies again;
All that is left is surging pain,
To die hard, to love in the rain.

What are the perks of breathing;
With a heartbeat made of pearls,
But that shall die for the world,
The fantasy and its dead sword.

What are the perks of beating;
I shall keep thee from life and death;
To hold thee close, to beget,
To be loved, to be glad.

What are the perks of chanting;
There is no gold like that of thee,
There is no poetry in that tree,
Gentle miseries soar in threes.

What are the perks of feeling;
The rose’s colour turns violet blue,
I am waiting for thy morning dew,
To writ today, to love anew.

What are the perks of love;
This dream of thee pains like a mist;
And all thy moves dance to my breeze;
I want thus, only to taste thy wrist.

In the new being that dawns, must I
Console waste and falsehoods;
Used not to my romantic skies,
Nor my Victorian delight, tonight.

In the new human that lives, but I
Run like a murmur, and shadows;
Those misshapen, unnatural forms
Falling away into vernal decay.

In the new soul that breathes, yet I
Come to made solace and comfort;
With no romantic tenderness
And softness that tend to me.

In the new influence, the new smoke
But I taint my arts and visions;
And make blessed sonnets insincere,
Ridding of their appetite for me.

I was born in the modern, caught
Within the naught of being;
What carries this new feeling, I guess
My soul may not find rest.

I was urged to stay, and say
What the morose hold yet to tell
Not the honest of me; the truths
I may have fallen into silence.

I am only able to live at night;
Being true to dark, ******* sights,
That attract but no organism,
Nor living thoughts and modern insights.

I am only capable of misery;
Their arsons are killing to me,
I cannot paint all that rages in me,
They suspend my arts in dishonor.

Their poems bring about nothing;
My delights they have all killed,
Out of my aesthetic will,
Out of sane satire and parody.

Their art charters no bliss;
I am like the quiet of the sky,
In the midst of this war, I only say
None but the imagery of lies.

Their spouses enjoin ill kisses;
Coining sublime in our frights,
But never frightened like our tears,
Dwelling in our drained thoughts.

Their remarks make us dissolve;
Keeping art away like a spectre,
And dissect my love like a sombre,
Like they were the mere sober souls.

What if the poet in me, conformed
To those marks with no heartbeat;
And my angered words lost their form
Ending such good tones of their wit.

What if the worth in me, paid to them
The wanted chords and juggled songs;
For their ****** and erratic admission
But so not my final destination.

What if the written stopped to sing
To leave, and wish me just well;
How could I stay blind to frustration
How would I restrain such fevers?

What if the tune in me, made dead
By the modern’s hustled breath;
Sung by the engrained commonness,
Having lost its poetic madness.

What if the hours in me, silenced;
Made moroseness, and quiet
I have not been recalled anyway;
I have been silence like yesterday.

What if the seconds in me, tickled
And turned and bored me to dust
Would their hesitations ever last
Would they come to the truth?

What if the leaf in me, peopled
All of their impossible periled
To petrify and sicken my desire,
Shall I embrace mossy poems still?

What if the rose in me, tempted
To lose hold of trained purity;
Would my punishment rise in smoke,
Would I be chained to hell?

What if the love in me, stunned
To death, and its cordless vision;
I am never loved anyway,
Nor guarded, nor made of love.

Those fat beams of sunshine sickened me, and I felt as though my insides had been rotting quickly as I strode further. As much as I wanted to love the morning walk, I could not help feeling ill from the hot breeze licking at my face. It held me breathless, pulling me away from my sweet memories of winter, scratching at every mound of cleanliness that my early shower had given me. I hate being here, I whispered in silence. The sun has always been a sign of sickness to me; its hotness a disfigured existence that has been but a threat to my presence. As more shriveled dust traveled to my cheeks, all I could think of was running away as fast as I could, to the very place where the sun could no longer find me; where winter would be mine once more—and eternally this time. As much as I wanted to feel at home, my heart could lie to me no more; for it would not find its sojourn in the new Jakarta. I had to go again, this I knew at that very moment, to fly over the moon and retrieve my autumn from the stars.  

My day started in a daze; the steps I took to the workroom felt nearly weightless. I did not take a glimpse of a single thing along the stairway; in unconsciousness did I slide my chair away from my desk and sit in an awkward position. I was a piece of exhaust, haunted by the sun’s angry rays; the sun brought not light but blindness to my sight. However, this was what happened every morning since I had returned; too often that I was almost unable to identify who I was anymore. All the moves around me seemed like a dream. Yet, now I realise that even though they had been a reality, I would still have considered them a dream. I opened my laptop and started typing into the keyboard. Typing the words that I did not even want to read. Typing into the unknown universe that I would not seek myself in. The universe that I would never find in literature; and so would never be mine.

I had never lived a reality since I had seen Jakarta back again, this is the truth. I daydreamed about a distant place often; one that would not expose me to dire rays of sunshine nor plaster me to the routines I could never fit myself in. The bitterness of having left England washed over me once more this morning. Perhaps I could never win my winter back. Perhaps I would never return. Perhaps it all has left, once and for all. Perhaps I would always be alone. I had but lived in my literature, my poetry, the stories I wrote, all along; and theirs was the only air that keeps me breathing. I would think of the moors of Yorkshire once more, beside the cold boughs of Warwickshire that I had known—and let myself dance through the greenness that I would never forget.

I heard but I did not see you;
I knew you came, that you were there.

Your quaint shadow, just by my side;
I felt you close, just like that night.

The night we met, I remember;
The night that cajoled forever.

The night that consumed me enough;
The night that burnt away my love.

You are a living moon to me;
With a charm that could set me free.

You are a violent air that speaks;
The watered paint my dry soul seeks.

You held the sweet simmering cloud;
Yet you could not find me, out loud;

You own the lethal love of mine;
I cannot keep you off my mind.

The skies were lit, blue as your eyes;
The whole moment felt like sunrise.

The moon shines ******* your cold skin;
Though I remained to thee, unseen.

Why, why did you light up too late;
At least hear some of my sonnets!

Why, why did you run way too fast;
You had not found me in your heart!

You faded right before the breeze;
Having heard none else but false bliss;

You stormed away at the first sign;
Leaving the fortress of my mind.

You were too senseless to believe;
Too blind to give, too young to live.

You melted right in front of me;
Bathed in the stars of the sea.

Lies, compliant lies, that spell
Our names and wish us well;
But hidden in whose blood is war –
Subpar but harsh to understand.

Lies, such lies are possible;
All within the broke world’s trouble,
What is love without loveliness,
What are tears without sadness;

Lies, such lies do exist;
But be seen through happy mist,
The mildest one felt at heart,
Tearing at us, consumes our blood;

Lies, such lies are ever born;
Unblinking amongst God’s thorns,
That He dies in its shrine;
Frayed in the morning sunshine.

That yon life of ours is scratched;
Not even when truths are fetched,
Growing into the skies of autumn,
That look like those radiant poems;

That the grass shall not be green;
And the midnight is not seen,
Though lovelier than summers,
Washed with ****** thunders.

And poems lie not, they shan’t;
They are what the heart wants,
The words of despaired justice,
The divided bliss, soaked kiss.

And the poet is right – of warmth;
Only to be found in real charms,
And their dignity that all knew—
Lies are undignified, untrue.

What is it with violent hearts;
Those that make our souls cry,
And tear our feelings apart,
But tears are true to the sky.

What is it with untouched lies;
The lies that thread us but tore,
As though there was no more,
When truth finally dies.

What is it with unheard death;
As we deepen our last breath,
Will we find love, and comfort;
Unnamed tales that were cut short.

What is it with lovely riddles;
Dwindling our minds to tears,
Ridding our eyes of fears,
Peering through rough scraggle.  

And the poet shall know better;
That honesty has died alone,
Not much of Desire is known,
No truth shall last forever.

And the poem shall read longer;
That grass is blue, and green rain
Are what is to happen ever,
Pain is normal at all, again;

And the poet shall have left;
To be just but to be unjust,
Moments are never to last,
Love is not what hearts have.

And the poem shall have caved;
In to the pain ‘tis meant to be,
That no more bears meanings to see,
No more love shall be saved.

I see you, just who I am;  
Then your lips touch my glass,
To glide to your side as hours last,  
To die today, to find you in my name.

You see me, just who you are;    
I am fine here, and in my heart,  
That I sing your song and you sing mine,  
You are my soul, my wish, my sign.

I see you here, and your apparition;
Your shadow at those bland hours,
Our lives are but a shared petition,
Grow as a leaf, but of separate flowers.

You see me there, you talk to me;
Always wanting to be by your side,
Entwined with you but I am free,
To raise your voice, to hold your sight.

I watch you laugh, I hear you say;
I catch your dates and months away,
To feel your pulse, your soaked breaths,
The best inclusion I have ever felt.

You see me smile, you hug me;
Through these seething sun and stardom,
And their sweet drama and poem,
As the night spins around to see.

I pass you by, draw you close;
Too afraid that you may be lost,
To keep you so sweet as the night,
And its mystery forms, alright.

You stride along, and roam by me;
Too scared that I may not see,
To be the joy about the bliss,
To be the wind around the breeze.

I write your poems, fill your rhymes;
That you may have me in your times,
To chain your airs, but cheer your lips,
Surround your solid fingertips.  

You write my tales, frame my lines;
That I myself shall not resist,
All this is joy and awkward signs,
That we embrace, we heart, we miss.

I hold your hands, bring you heat;
Colour your ******* and your heartbeat,
And put your silky mind to rest,
Keeping you flavoured and chaste.

You hold my palm, give me love;
Bathe me in braids and bold of blood,
Fill me with life and veins of laugh,
You are half of me, and my heart.

I hath fall’n in love with death, again;
And those sirens in silence! Pain;
A rugged dose of fevers, rise;
All those healings are but lies.

I hath said to my doctors, too sick;
My skin is throwing, old and weak;
To chew and *****, every week;
To cast the health I should not seek.

I hath returned my sight, and see;
Hard of sayings, hard of tone,
Painlessly, being death as I can be,
To rot and vanish, all alone.

I hath veneered my light, and shut;
Drawn a satin cross across my heart,
No more loneliness, then, to see,
The Earth is being brought to me.

The fatal chaos, dances out there;
I was there about, for long hours,
But to be misconstrued as unfair,
To be at dawn, crushed and sour.

The fatal course, lingers up there;
I was not listened to, my poems,
But the weakest of my glooms,
None came to my words, nor chair.

The horrid case, remains still;
Matters no more that I am ill,
The poet, that the world shunned,
Ever on the move, the stunned.

The horrid fate, regrets still;
But to change, souls never will;
Perhaps, ‘tis only within this tomb,
Youth’s chained desires shall find a home.

The white casket, and cardboard box;
That speak of the love one knew not of;
And the tired stories that were locked,
And the paled faces feeling not enough.

The doomed gown, glowing in death;
Comes in on me as it takes my breath,
And puts my coffin atop its shade,
To forgive, and love that is too late.

And thus said, the nurses;
“We are a threat to flavoured pains,”
“We are Relief to unsaid plains,”
“We are belief to a thousand words.”

And thus said, the doctors;
“We are yet the best to the worst,”
“We are the poems to every symptom,”
“We hold the future of your poems.”

And thus said, the surgeons;
“We are those cancerous’ nightmare,”
“We have not tears in our hairs,”
“We melt the cold, we freeze the burns.”

And thus told me, the syringes;
“We are right behind thy windowsill,”
“We are a comfort to all those ill,”
“We are ever there in the morning.”

And thus sang, the medicine;
“We are the minuet of healing,”
“We are the health in singing,”
“We are what the living hath been.”

And thus bragged, the aspirins;
“We are the arms of aspiration,”
“We are the breathing’s best hints,”
“We are but delightful potions.”

And thus boasted, the drugs;
“We are cold honey to your lungs,”
“We are solemnity and hugs,”
“We are thy steadfastness, and rungs.”

Who lives to hear my shrieking songs;
And roam those scientific melodies,
But my healing is not on those lists;
I cannot so be here, for long.

Who lives to hear my ragged breath;
Insanely ill, flailing like death,
A being among the worst of charms,
The cruelest of evils, and harms.

Who moves to swallow, these tablets;
At the very sign of my last breath,
And the final shots, plain and rough;
That even they shan’t have enough.

Who moves to yield, to those tests;
The sightings that bring unrest,
The gurgling sounds that nest,
The writhing noises, in my chest.

Who wants to heal still, and erase;
The death from whom they shall run,
Who still likes to seek their face,
Dancing to youth, and mimicked fun.

Who wants to heal still, and come back;
To the gruesome crowds’ drawbacks,
To fall in laughter and get drawn,
To be engaged, but to be alone.

Who wants to heal me, and hold all;
The wishes I erased, that fall,
To be lone again, like an unborn,
To be at night, with no noise like morns.

Who wants to heal me, and bewitch;
The last of my nerves glide and twitch,
To be back in sorrow, and tomorrow,
To be the cries thou want not to know.

Who is to write to me, or read me;
The unwritten poems I could not see,
To be back in love and get torn,
To be the one birth not yet born.

Who is to write to me, to belie;
To pretend their coarse roads shan’t lie,
To pretend that there is no truth,
To pretend that age is at youth.

Who is to lie by me, to beget;
To pretend we are not rife in regrets,
To pretend all is fine, and shred—
Tears into rained clouds of fate.

Who is to lie by me, that I shall see;
This intoxicated wrath leave me,
Leaving me to the dead, thou hear,
In one minute then, I shan’t be here.

Who is to love like me, o my dear;
All I am hearing is this pain that hurts,
And all that rounds is cross and fear,
Like desperate chords, unheard.

Who is to love like thee, but not;
Thou hath cut my small story short,
And retreated like ill apparatus,
By the midnight sun, I cursed.

Who is to live like me, but weird;
Hark, I hath not any feeble heir,
To pace with the course of a poet,
To think with age, but see in youth.

Who is to live like thee, this spell;
Thou hath bound me to hell,
And while I die all shall look gray,
With my washed tears and sins of today.

Who is to curse like me, but see;
None that heard was capable of talk,
I saw none, but a sweet thee;
But that not lingered, after the walk.

Who is to curse like thee, o believe;
Who shall taste the sand of regrets,
The forgiveness I cannot yet give,
The chastity tainted with risked fate.

Who is to write like me, about;
I hath not spoken up, out loud,
When all die, souls shall behold;
That they are heat, and no longer my cold.

Who is to write like thee, around;
Where can my missing poem be found,
All I can hear is this close to my heart—
‘Tis screaming in pain, dying hard.

I fall into the rain, beneath me;
My sky a glittery dust to thee,
Calling the joy I hath not met,
Thou cometh sweetly, but late.

I fall into the cold, and just me;
Only I understand the clouds,
Oh! I cannot seek that ‘tis so loud,
Too much noise, sickly around me!

Those fallen tears around my head;
The soundlessness of one’s fate,
And hark, in such quietness,
The decrepit being of hotness!

Those ragged stars about my hair;
Closing in on me, and my air,
With hues dyed in drowned sunshine,
But proud still, in its dried signs.

For such heat hath closed me;
Hath sifted me away from you.
For such guilt hath haunted me;
Hath kept me away anew.

For such a love, that thou felt;
But not yet felt again, today,
The gaze that I once beheld,
The words my heart cannot say.

Wherefore art thou, my beloved;
For t’is passion is tainted but pure,
To behold, to instill, to demure,
The meaning of this first love.

Wherefore art thou, my paint;
These poems hath not been said,
I see chaos, and not a flesh of fate,
I hath been loving in vain.

Wherefore art thou, my gaze;
Why cannot I see you through my face,
To hear such a bountiful voice,
To be about thee, in this bliss.

Wherefore art thou, my voyage;
I cannot stay this sober longer,
And hysteria, turning into sobs,
Like death, as my heart throbs.

Wherefore art thou, my colour;
Bestowed on thee my honour,
And age, with my fleeting skin,
Waiting in haste, to be seen.

Wherefore art thou, my winter;
Having too many doubts in summer,
Awaiting a lover that lasts,
By the moonlight and stardust.

Wherefore art thou, my rain;
And the sung that sings again,
To release my midnight, its pain—
To be my beloved, then.

Wherefore art thou, my kiss;
I can see your solemnity,
A thousand unsung melodies,
To bless, to make love to me;

Wherefore art thou, my art;
Too much of me is in my heart,
But none with a charm like thee,
Like the poet in fire, that in me.

Wherefore art thou, my sword;
I am bland now, and unheard,
Unheard as the rain that falls,
Amongst the sheltered walls.

Wherefore art thou, my piano;
The sound that arriveth late,
But not late to be my memento—
To remove all conscious hate.

Wherefore art thou, my word;
Improvised but reckless, my Lord,
Ah! Calm but poisonous, like me,
A fastidious silver, like thee.

You are made of the stars, and in haste
You put my love and my heart to rest;
You are like and unlike a dream today
But I have dreamt since last night
I am a ghost to the resting world;
As much as my poems are, as my words.

You are made of life, hell and heaven;
But I am too far away to breathe your air
And in your pristine eyes, such moments
Are a piece of untouched, unreal affairs
You are but a star to me, not a reality;
I oft’ see you on those stages of beauty.

Who be with me here, ‘tis awkward;
His aura is not thine, I assume,
And his lips, which are blue, blind mine;
Who hath saluted me in the worst of storms
And still, I could not trust for long;
But you may find for me another song.

Who be with me here, ‘tis strange;
Your love is sadly, not in such range,
And my whining is deemed absurd;
I am entrapped in a loud world.
What is a charm then, when not thine?
What are the workings of one’s mind?

What be this song I sing to you, my love;
In a word so surreal and full of images,
In a cry so full of anger and rage;
In a mortal chain but of my sonata,
I cannot afford to hate my enemies,
I cannot be the least of kisses.

What be this poem but of thee, my darling;
In the graphs that carry you, in grayness;
In a pertinence of shots, and obedience,
All those frozen moments of resilience.
You, standing there in silence, to say
You will charm me through the night and day.

I looked at the sore stars last night;
And one looking like you, that high
I cannot reach such heights, to see
To love you then, my celebrity;
Her heart hath taken you from me,
Leaving my youth alone to sick poetry.

I looked at such grey film, and thought;
Their births were not those of my books,
That even being in love is not sane,
I am not among the best of their men;
Even my love is not lithe to you, and him;
That such bounties are to remain a dream.

For the rose to see me, on rainy nights
To sit by me and the Northern Lights;
To watch the rain stop and stand still,
To comprehend the fetal crush I feel.
I see my naked heart, on the rough floor
Battered and smothered outside the door.

For the sun to shine on me, on cold nights
And to bring you over, my starlight
To walk me down the earths of fame;
And to make time recognize my name,
To tame such an unloved fate, and seem
Like all these are not just a dream.

For my crush to walk me, to your heart
To feel the excitement of loved delights;
Perhaps my lover, is not a celebrity,
But a reality to be handed to me,
To replace my faded fame that was stolen;
To free me from my shielded torments.

For such a continuation, and rain
For the rain I always long to have;
The one separated from me, like you,
I may wish for such longings to be untrue,
As there is no continuation in reality,
But dreams, they are to me an eternity.

For there is no virtue, and unlike thee,
My beauty is no good to myself;
Perhaps the highest misery lies in me,
And this loneliness is virtuous poetry.
For there is no handsomeness like yours,
But ‘tis only a dream to be in your arms.

I walk away silently, as always;
You are not acquainted with my ways.
Who am I to actuate a dreamy kiss;
I am not even a retort to lying bliss.
There is no fate in our hands, ah;
I have been consumed by all fiends.

I read away in silence, as always;
For love hath seemed too awkward to me,
There is too much sunshine every day;
That I am blind, I am not sweet to beauty.
Just like the famous days you celebrate;
I am not to know my own self, even late.

For love hath seemed to cruel to me,
One that consumes me with too much vigour,
Too insolent in its youth, merciless;
Mercies have left it, and not returned;
Love has corrupted, and stained me now,
What my edge shall bring I not know.

For love hath too much intensity, so now
I may and may not be able to love you though,
To say your love to me out of this dream,
To make all that scream sounds possible;
To make me trust, more than it seems,
To make this sore heart endurable.

For love hath broken me, and my vow
To love you might not be the one now;
Love hath had my chastity too high,
That knowledge may not be amicable;
That my prominence is but not the sky;
That my memories are not speakable.

For love hath had me, rendered me low
I am not noticed by my window;
And everything in my midair looks stale
And all of my sins may not be purified.
I am tortured and conjured in my shell,
But no love shall amend it right.

For love hath spent me, and stepped on me
Breaking my every inch of beauty;
But what is my beauty—a history to all,
I am not known beyond my artist’s wall;
I am a silence, to all circles and worlds,
I am not heard beyond my murdered words.

Whilst the nights look like his lips;
He, Vladimir, that I once loved,
And love still now, when I sleep;
And miss now, when I weep.

Whilst the skies look like his eyes;
He, Vladimir, that hath but left,
My soul at the rage of Leningrad;
His goodbyes then erased my heart.

And when I look into the sun, apart;
I cannot but see the naïve Jakarta,
Trembling and groaning and moaning by its heat--
that its brown rain is not too sweet.

And when I gaze into the sea, the ocean;
The sandy scene turns evil bliss,
With a vile scent that rips, and burns--
A part of me that was pleased.

And when I stare at the heat, and its meat;
My souls collapse, they cannot meet,
There are hazards in its singing;
Violence in its newborn spring.

Wha else is sweet but Vladimir’s hand;
There was art then, like that in the rain,
What cold I felt, but that of love--
The feelings then, were more than enough.

What else is love but Vladimir’s eyes;
That my mercy rises to live again,
What is triumph, what is victory;
And all, without my Vladimir in me.

What else is laugh but Vladimir’s gaze;
In there are so much laughter, and idyll,
The ones that speak--the grass feels,
The ones I sought from East to West!

What else are tears but Vladimir’s mad;
What is in love but my own joy;
A joy that is too sad, and now immune--
To this untouched love, the worlds’ tune.

Give me back, o my Vladimir to me;
He was too sweet, that I could not see--
And with a smile he opened my heart
To the cold curtains of Leningrad.

Bring me back, my Vladimir to me;
Tell the whole world look to look vintage,
For my flesh not to carry my age;
And for the Heat not to be seen.

And how can I but not love Leningrad?
With its water, sonorous past--
The magnolia tree there hath friended me;
And which sounds so sweet but she?

And how can I but not love Vladimir;
For his orotund and resonant clauses,
That the birds lakeside loved to hear
Beside the beds of daffodils and roses.

The grandiose melodies, I hear;
Those reminding me of his Light, and sleep--
The ones my heart turned to see,
And were so sweet as his lips.

The ornate feelings, I have here;
The feelings looking short and weird;
But the obedience of life, and Fate--
That we cannot reject, now or late.

The florid roses, and their music
They made my Vladimir looked too sleek;
And so clean as his sea of blue eyes;
Trembling my heart, soaking my nights.

The unsung chords, the lovely song
But nothing lasted a night, nor long;
My Vladimir hath gone from his dreams;
Nor could my other days see him.

The unheard love, the black poetry
That I writ here, oft’ with passion;
That my heart can again be free,
From this longing, from such poisons;

The unspoken, unwritten love;
My Vladimir hath yet to see,
That I hath not once left my thought
of him, and what Leningrad is to be;

The unsorted, untold stories;
I hath not forgiven my own sorry,
I cannot think behind the cold breeze--
My Vladimir might be there, might see me.

The pompous cheer, the fake chills
None is too genuine, and yet;
Why are those all Leningrad can feel,
Why do them make my hearts sad?

The painted hills, the brown forests
Why my heart cannot be at rest;
And why Leningrad can be scandalous
At the most obedient of times?

I cannot see you, but I still hear
Your moonlit voice that I feel near;
And your steps that made me sleep
Ringing loud in my soul so deep.

I cannot hear you, but I still feel
You are about me, my Vladimir;
And why this love seems so blue
Because ‘tis genuine, ‘tis true;

I cannot feel you, but I still sense
That such love too is insane;
That sanity too is my friend,
That we shall meet, and love again;

I cannot sense you, but I still see
That my heart seems to go that far;
To you, to bring you back to me
To our unsung hours in Leningrad.

I cannot see you, but I listen
To the city that makes love fair;
And the story that brought us there,
If only you could be here.

I cannot see you, but I recall
The loveliness there, down the halls;
And the forest--as we walked along,
And stopped by to hear their song.

I cannot see you, but you are here;
Calling out to me that you are near;
And to you, I shall come out
To say my love once more, out loud;

I cannot see you, but you are true
And without you, all hath been blue;
To be with you again, in my heart
To be back in love with Leningrad.

I cannot see you, but you are there
And your love makes Leningrad so fair;
To be your star, and your moonlight
To be in your arms at the gliding night.

I cannot see you, but you love me;
And your love shall make me see
To be my sky, and my rainforests;
To put my clouded heart to rest.

I cannot see you, but you want me
As much as love itself is true;
And as much as Leningrad is to be
As much as our love can be, anew.

I cannot see you, but I want you
And your time as much as mine;
You make me insane, and blind
You are unreal, but then true;

I cannot see you, but I love you
So much as Leningrad anew;
And your heart is what I have here;
And your song is what I hear.

Human, itself being a founded note;
Born and dead on our short horizon,
And Time, our delusion and destination
That shall taint us, but blessed with Years.

Birth, itself being a feat of nature;
Towering above our beats and vision
That binds our imagination, and be
The Perfumed Life that came true.

Life, itself being a precarious gift;
That shall disobey within its Time,
And its frame, a disgrace to us all
Shall befall us, halting all our Hearts.

Second, that comes within minutes;
And goes again by the end of the day
Admonished into the Wind, and see—
Time is too violent still, indeed!

Minutes, that injects made Hours into us;
That lingers by but too shall fade,
That all we have is a vivid parade,
And its notes a fake chain of choirs!

Hours, being the tomb of various lies,
And the secrets we have held now;
From the womb, and through our Years—
Witnessing all through our lapsed visions!

Days, being the chosen way to live;
And the present of Time to give,
We shall ignore all feverish truces,
But make the fruitful of all, peace!

Weeks, being the collective nights, ah!
With thousands of secrets and demerits,
That all we see may contain a pace;
In the worried maze of our world, again!

Months, being the rigorous catch alone;
That all champagne may sound forlorn,
For a melody is once, and then torn
We speed fast indeed, every morn!

Years, but we should be at Pace;
That our eyes be calm, and not wander,
After one another's wonder, and bliss,
For Peace do exists, within Life's ease!

Peace, and we all shall be Joy;
And such Joy we cannot destroy,
To live with sweat, and happy cheeks
To entertain brief Months, and Weeks!

Eyes, and in such Peace we see;
That not all souls provide their space,
But not to worry, and keep your pace
In the East and West, be a Heart at rest!

Chest, being the place where Heart rests;
And the emotions that Life tests,
Whether to be strong, or weak—
Whether to revenge, or to forgive!

Heart, itself being an obedient fun;
Healing again aft' broken by one,
Yet I do find t'is at times oblivious,
And such meant forgiveness is tedious!

Vein, itself being a remote rose;
That threads Life into all morning prose,
And kills all venom in naïve pores,
But too to die, amidst the chosen chores!

Age, being a sign of a frail human;
Neither majestic nor grandiose,
For there is no happiness lasting forever,
Neither does prejudice, but Time.

Blood, being alive only with beats;
Is not by anyone called merit,
But to speak of any Truth, it hurts,
And upon such pains, it freezes!

Skin, feel the touch of the good and beasts;
The sick of the flesh and hereafter,
And Faith, the one that should be longer,
Would you but ****, would you but ****?

Faith, feel the insane and harmony;
And in all arrays of immunity shall pray,
That all alive shall be golden, alone,
That all that breathes stays salubrious.

Fire, a blazing energy alone;
But not of a pleasing idea, indeed,
And who stays alive after doses of Fire—
Whose soul shall love, who shall admire?

Sun, spreading its abyss and sharp rays;
For Dark is violated in her, and see,
Everywhere we see but raging Fire,
And syringes of Fire, again, shall ****!

Dark, spreading its wings to raided pits;
But there is a little Light, dimly wit,
That we all should not leave tossed,
To find our way, not to get lost!

Cold, a blatant whisper, and fever;
That all human fleshes are feverish,
None is taken in everlasting bliss,
None encourages eternal blessings, ah!

Rage, an apparent command, and aye;
A weariness explained to all souls,
That tastes bitter at present, and later,
Living indeed, in here and the afterlife!

Anger, a feared one—a polar of tears;
Ice and Smoke blended into worn fits of fears,
A scream denied by what one hears,
A turmoil of scars boiling up high!

Laugh, a genuine smile, but hurts;
As though plainness was preferred,
But never true, for such views are
Provisions, to the normal communes' hearts!

Smile, the smothered voice, and bless;
Make all our veins worry much less,
And render all miseries, again, unhappy,
Bless your tender soul with fine poetry!

Tone, being the voice of its martyred soul;
Diving into the throats of fishy and foul,
Of which raging minds that we hold no clue,
Of the times of death—the ends of breath.

Chords, being the music of the tragic;
To some, whose magic sounds so meek,
Always buoyant, but ne'er sleek,
To the artist's challenged mind, watch!

Song, being the allergy of the night;
For such Hours prefer silence, alright,
Only to demerited souls, and again—
Such normal souls are barely our friends.

Poem, being the silence our souls seek;
Being the tightness to hold on to, see,
Being the Flawless Moon we fight to be,
Being the heart that keeps us alive.

Sweet, being the very art that awaits;
The pretty picture we see, and writ,
At the most romantic hours, and late
The most honest insight into my soul.

Words, being the art we move and paint;
So ardently, and within a housed vault,
That is at peace with those green bushes,
And the broad, frozen shoulders of Night!

Graphs, being the drawing of the artist;
Being the silent cold that we love,
Being a river as lovely as Vincent,
Being an adornment like a friend!

Lakes, being an admitted raindrop;
In which flow our dropped gloom and misery,
And Seas and Oceans wrapped in giggles,
That in their triumph spread, to all souls.

Seas, being an Ocean full of lives;
The hive of bees, sharks, and olives,
The knot of cries, screams, and laughter,
Growing as ever, together and forever.

Oceans, bearing waves of Sadness and Joys;
Of pains that were once solemnly borne,
Of anguish that hath somberly gone,
Of gladness of being sober, alone.

Sunset, being the edge of anxieties;
And when rain comes, all beings cheer,
Attending Midnight's capricious fair—
And the dance of spring sights, full of joy.

Night, being the love of all charities;
And the living forgiveness wished well,
The place where, anew, hopes are born;
The lodging where all dreams come true.

Dawn, being the sight of Newness;
Whenst all wakes up in sighs of happiness,
And celebrate living in frantic breaths,
Life stirred up once more, and be met.

Light, being the Aurora of Joy;
Like the one reborn in the universe,
That we oft' see in the skies of Helsinki,
Be the true love you and I can see.

Wind, being our own saluted breeze;
And to our charms is never late,
That, before the storm, shall kiss us,
With a stirring Warmth that shall last.

Haze, being the panorama of late;
The renewal of old, agitated Fate,
The forgiven sins we fluently see,
The most adored destiny we will be.

Fate, being the fullest of our dreams;
And more obvious than they seem,
That Fate is fair, and not a nightmare,
The one being true lovers shall share.

Mate, being the most advanced lover;
With deep passion shining forever,
And awake, in each other's slumber—
Not to betray, nor harm, never.

Joy, being the most prominent soul;
The core of all painters and poets,
The heart of all lovers and tales,
To wait for thee, to love me.

Warmth, being the most prudent of all;
The most sought in this crowded world,
And the Charms and Love that come with it,
Being the very Fate we have longed to greet.

Charm, being the Truthful of those;
With a heartbeat as grand as every prose,
And to wait for its eternal rose,
To forgive truly, to heal each loss.

Truth, being the most stellar itself;
In which Love forms its paradise,
And to wait for its longest bliss,
To enjoy all sights; embrace their mists.

Love, being the truest of all that rests;
The most desired in a human's chest,
And to wait for our true Love be,
To wait truly, and most patiently.

Thy voice rolls on the handsome air;
   I hearest thee on the violet grass;
   Thou standest above the drifted haze;
And in this setting thou art fair.

Thou looked gay and pleasing to me;
   And thy gallant charms blinded me
   And though I may have loved in vain
Thou maketh me mad, love is insane;

What is with thy striking blue eyes
   And two hauntingly sweet lips;
   I heard thee writ in last night's sleep
And draw my roses in the skies.

Far off thou art, and ne'er near;
   Although I wish thou could but hear
   How long I hath wished for, and still
Thou shalt not seek the love I feel.

Far off thou art, and ne'er here;
   Although I wish thou could be near
   How long I hath loved, every day
Thou shalt not leave for me today.

Far off thou art, and ne'er hear;
   Although I wish thou could be near
   How long I hath opened my heart;
And prayed we would not be apart.

Far off thou art, and ne'er see;
   How much I want thee here with me
   With just more love days to charm;
To stay by my side, in my arms.

Far off thou art, and ne'er know;
   How much I could love tomorrow
   With just enough at heart to see;
With just enough love to love me.

I paint the night, the ******* gloss;
Colouring the grass and their floss;
Keeping watch o'er the careful storm;
The air of the night is clear and warm.

I sketch again, the reddened corpse;
To colour it black, on purpose;
Laid dead in a battered light;
The awful course of his smug fright.

I pat again the pouring rain;
Hiding the hideous battle scene;
And yellow for the beaming sands;
The soft canvas, the howling wind.

I touch the graying lithe flowers;
Pictured wet by unheard showers;
And so their drizzles hath softened;
Leaving the slaughtered stones fastened.

Who says I'll hide my greasy face;
The painter that hath done his best;
I hath not the tears of a beast--
I hath found my ill soul, at least;

Who says I eat flowing water;
For rivers can be disobedient;
For greenness can keep a hound
On the sunburnt higher grounds.

Who says turpentine is a rose;
For 'tis but shorter than a prose;
And whose leaves can be shaky;
To the wind that once set me free.

Who says that love shall cure, and mess
With my boisterous, dainty rest;
Who says they hath a soul, this beast
That unites souls on the rose's feast.

Who says the grass hath sought much growth
When it hath but fainted three times;
Under the hot sun, grown rainbows
More than they would be pleased to show.

And who says I shall paint with love;
Love be ease, but a curse to me;
A sordid spell I shan't welcome
The erased song I shan't become.

And who says I ought yet to freeze;
To be foolish, and to be told
To be free like a lazy breeze
I hath my own truth to behold;

And who says I shall cut my skin
To entrance them, and to be seen
For what a love may falsely mean;
What hath an insincere dream been?

And who says I shall paint lithe lies
To further stretch my long night skies;
That I paint with enhanced delight
In a demure beige, sweet daylight;

And who says I shall be with thee
That I can fake ponderous lights;
For the mornings are not in me;
Neither are their hours, nor green light.

And who says I shall not be free;
For freedom too is not idyll;
For normal is not what I see;
For common is not what I feel.

I am a rebel to their sight;
I have destroyed their lovely night;
My birthplace is displeased with me;
My plain fellows loathe what they see.

I am a rebel to their souls;
I have not understood their calls;
What forms a day, in their daylight;
What is a morning, at their night?

I am a rebel on the run;
In search of the sweet midnight sun;
In need of certainty and awe;
In want of clarity and law.

I am a rebel on the go;
That the unspoken dawn shan’t know;
The insane poet the crowd shan’t meet;
The unwritten course they shan’t read.

I am a mad rebel that haunts;
A fragile fool none near shall want;
Too hushed to their noisy sleeps;
Too quiet to their talking lips.

I am a quiet rebel that screams
The sun is a threat to my dreams;
And the thousands that live thereof
Shall not ingest my kindred love.

I am a rebel that denies;
I could not fathom their bronze skies;
That, on such endless summer’s days
Asked me to find my own lost ways.

I am a stunned rebel that cries;
My world floats just like butterflies;
I have too many tastes and fears;
My fate is anywhere but here.

Hark! I can hear the drifted voice;
And days that hath once passed away;
I merged with their bliss yesterday;
And today, I shall share their kiss.

Hark! About this lonesome vanity;
Be a string of insanity;
Unheard by those followed liars;
But more enhanced than the Sun's fires.

One about this stupidity;
Is that I feelest insane no more;
I paint, and drown in artistry;
I writ, and none sounds like before;

One about this insanity;
The swirling clouds and haze to me;
Wand'ring in circles about thee;
To be dead now, but ne'er be;

One about this strange clarity;
A fatal clause that shan't let me;
What a perfect calamity--
To draw me thus, to let me free!

How about if I drift away;
Leaving all that I hath today,
And the poems I writ--but again;
What shall be mine--o my friend?

To the sane, we are a disgrace;
To the sage, we are loneliness,
To the safe, we are dead and lost--
And such vain pictures, ah, ain't true!

What are those glad mortal lilacs;
What are burnt, prudent lavenders;
What is this life, I can't handle;
Why do all lovers look alike?

What are those crying little skies;
What is in their handsome blue eyes;
What is their fate that can be seen;
What has life meant, what has it been?

What is this shy nature to me;
What makes the cold Moon so bashful;
What does sound prejudice to be;
What do lies make, what is truthful?

What shall it mean to be just fine;
What does it mean to be in love;
What shall it mean to have a mind;
What does it mean to be enough?

What shall it mean to be pure;
What does it mean to be tortured;
What shall it mean to destroy;
What does it mean to have joy?

What shall it mean to be insane;
What does it mean to die--and live?
What shall it mean to take and give;
What does it mean to be human?

What shall it mean then, to be loved?
What does it mean to be tough;
What shall it mean to love again;
What does it mean to have a friend?

What shall it mean then, to love thee;
What does it mean to be with me;
For love is none that I can see;
Nor one my broken heart can be.

Here I am! Elevated to a sordid state of mind;
And about my surroundings I claim no clue;
I just awoke from a kindred nightmare, true;
That I had had of late, ah! And I was blind;
Perhaps there ain’t a lovely creature around;
To t’is fate I hath been forcefully bound.

Here I was! As deranged as I may be now;
That I hath loved and vowed on the down low;
As much as I used to do, and again today;
The finished worlds spoke to me like yesterday;
And the dead, descending in smoke on me;
Seem even more real than yon living tree.

And so, far from the bulging little lilac;
All hath been too demanding and tough;
That all hath been terse under the sunlight;
I pretty much am frightened not by the night;
But I, seeking not the morning of the hand;
I only find my love in words, and paint;

And being far, behind in the know;
I wish I could understand today and tomorrow;
That they shan’t stare at me with rugged fright;
That I can still share their gift for the light;
But so, they cannot see my calm and anger;
I hath grown out of them, forever.

To those whom I once loved, and now still do;
To those whom I hath found in my chest, anew;
To those in whom I once engrossed my faith;
To those that hath hurt me, of late;
To those, to whom Midnight is wrong poetry;
To those, to whom my love remains yet for me.

To those, to whom love bears another form;
To those, to whom Lavender is barely a poem;
To those, who threads not enough love to love me;
To those, to whom my herd is not yet born;
To those, to whom such singing is not what I see;
To those, to whom my applause is but my own.

To those, to whom darkness is not fair;
To those, to whom joys ought not to be shared;
To those, to whom May is May, and hark!
To those, to whom tears are in the park;
To those, to whom depression is laughter;
To those, to whom laughter is bland anger!

To those, to whom tears are a strand of love;
To those, to whom scars are not enough;
To those, to whom coarseness is strength;
To those, to whom care is not in length;
To those, to whom loving is not to be gently;
To those, to whom wrong is fate, and hate is me!

For such sadness is gloom, and gloom is joy;
To me that joy has flown, and misery borne still,
And misery that carries happiness to feel;
Misery that itself remains an elegant coy;
And there is no place on earth for us to roam;
No glance at our rights, no words for our poems!

For such sorrow is true, and sick am I;
I am a stranded fool to the simmering sky;
That even the Sun shall render me wrong;
I am not to enchant its unwavering songs;
And so all my poems be a string of hate;
None has cursed me, but strained me of late.

For such tears are faint, and weak am I;
I am a disillusion to the enlightened lie;
A disgust to the retraced steps and roads;
I am a disturbed one to the minds of both;
I am diseased, a sick to the brain and cold;
I am a heartless litter, a stained cloth.

For such illness, and tortured am I;
They shan’t know me, even my lies;
That in the graveyard that we could stay
Holding hands at the passing of awkward days;
I am too delighted at the bribed night;
I am alone, a solitaire under daylight.

For such disgrace, and hateful lesions;
For such talent is but an illusion;
That in the tomb that only they surrender;
Asking that the slyness shan’t last forever;
That they shall ask us to forgive, and hear
What they all now seek, and have here.

For such hallucinations, and thoughts;
For such merits, and feelings, are locked;
That I can see not the soil gray today;
Tramped on by their noisy feet, and say;
That even such a modest fate they deny;
That all that exist are a lie.

And who shall be me, who shall see?
I live in a poem, and die in paint;
That they shall seek not the quiet of me;
I smell like grass myself, and turpentine;
I shall grow and die both in the shadows;
And cease on the halo of tomorrows.

And who shall seek me, who shall care?
These months hath been depressed and unfair;
Ere such days, there were lonely winds;
The most severed hauling I’d ever seen;
And with them were sane, pitiful torments;
Sending me off into sad, consumed moments;

And who shall be with me, who shall comfort;
I hath been warded off by my cruel Lord;
‘Hind the shades, I can only hear weeping screams;
Yet not so beauteous as the raging beams;
And who shall hide within my slumber’s visions;
For I hath no pleasure, nor divine provisions;

And who shall be by my side, who shall sleep;
For these dreams hath no notions to keep;
And whose disdained wisdom shall fight to stay;
Whilst they hath words no more, not to say;
And who shall sleep amongst they frayed wise;
None to live under them, nor be their disguise;

And who shall be my darling, be my gloom;
I hath no more wit left, not to meet;
Nor discomfort, nor to see my light poem;
I am not entertained by their sullen bits;
For such laughs are tears, and insincere;
For such songs are bitter, none that I hear;

And who shall be my heart, be my truth;
Who shall be grief to play my Eolian lute;
I hath seen none else among this seared grass;
And my winters shall go, and for fires to last;
They made me leave my heart in the sick past;
They hath made me and my chest apart;

And who shall be my tree, be my kind;
My poem is in good and evil and their lines;
For no dearer has sought me, by mean peril;
They’ve wished to run me into an Evil;
Ah! But whose love can be, to love me;
I am a literal madness no soul would be;

And who shall be my tree, be my lover;
Perhaps this sadness shall last forever;
And such joys shall sleep in demerits;
And the weathered daydreams, shan’t meet;
Perhaps I am meant to be my sweetheart—
Nor my darling, a thousand worlds apart.

For Vincent van Gogh

Vincent! There is no living star so sweet
As that I saw at thy starry night;
And none bears such grand merits
As those I caught in your sights.

Vincent! There is no delicate air
As that around your auburn hair,
And another with sincere blue eyes;
With a love enough for the whole skies!

Vincent! There is no fairer paint
Than that of thee, o handsome friend;
And see, how thou hath drowned in me
A beauty more infinite than the sea.

Vincent! None is more conscious
And no crowded souls are ever alert;
Thou hath made the dark so spacious,
And sane voices more deeply heard.

Vincent! None is more innocuous
Than thy once tortured heart;
And thy prominence was virtuous
That they dared to tear apart!

Vincent! There is no faint dream today
Than that the world has coldly torn;
Now I hear what thou wanted to say
Back at that time, all alone.

Vincent! There was no colder wind
Than that thy mind had fondly seen;
And who but thou couldst love more gently
And see my fates more charmingly?

Vincent! I myself saith no poor voice
That creatures alike shan’t rejoice;
Who else but the Sun could be sour
At thy most romantic hours?

Vincent! I myself hark no shortest bliss
That such cynics feelest not at ease;
Who else but the Earth could not see
Our last wishes to be free?

Vincent! I myself had no southern time
Nor had my tales come true;
None but thou canst see our sublime
Ah, none but thou, anew!

Vincent! I myself had no eastern kiss
And those, solely wanting to fly my wings;
Away from me, and my latest wishes
Away from my grief, and its tears springing.

Ah, Vincent! Shall I paint again your gray sky;
And behold such lies slowly fade;
That my words can make thee fly;
And protect thee under their shade.

Ah, Vincent! Shall I relate to thy sad sighs,
And witness the winters rocket up high;
I cannot be with thee again, but now
I shall dream and fulfill hearts, tomorrow.

Vincent! And shall I remind myself of thee;
Of a friend that would confide in me;
Here, I want to look at you into the sky;
To be your poem and human goodbye;

Vincent! Shall I remember thou wert there;
Thou wert freedom, and thy confused stare;
Was but the virtue they could not tame,
The hidden love unworthy of your name.

Vincent! Shall I recall thy picture from nature;
Of a talent so precious and mature;
And I, for endless years would see
Such an odd, but kind creature like he.

Vincent! Shall I seek again such virtues;
That nowadays shan’t become true;
But be a discordant chord to the Night;
And the bliss above, but a fright!

Vincent! Shall I read again such blossoms;
Even more tender than that in my *****,
Although they said thou wert so frail
Thou wert a comforted, and silent well!

Vincent! Shall I catch again such martyrdom;
That is sweeter than my longest poem;
To recite glumly across the moors;
But to dream of at every door!

Vincent! Shall I bewitch again such a heart;
That I voice in silence and obscurity;
That such clear memories can be apart;
That these poems are as handsome as thee.

Vincent! Shall I witness again such souls;
That I oft’ writ of in ease and warmth;
That no such colours are as beautiful;
That I found only in your charms.

Vincent! Shall I speak again of the spell;
That thou breathed into the summer rose;
That thy colours are more than my prose;
That they sounded fine, and grew well.

Vincent! Shall I own again such fineness;
That I found even in thy demerit;
That I singled out in thy oneness;
That thou painted once, so sweet!

Vincent! Shall I hold again such sorrows;
That my poems can just shyly be;
That this remembrance shall be now;
That thou hath believed in me.

Vincent! Shall I have again such love;
That fate itself can manifest enough;
That thou drew sincerely those days;
That thou art real to me today.

A sweet, chirping grey jungle tree;
Stirring up bloodied doses within me,
I hath been abducted by morose darkness;
And its fetal, yet obnoxious messes,
For t'is flowered cave smelling just like death!
And to me, death is more like an obsession
In a glaze this phony, and dripping wet
Cold that I hath met about, in person.
One that hath fascinated me; with wronged tears
A single soul is not yet there to hear;
And lurking pools of fears, all blended
Into the versatile skin of the unfriended
Moon, being the beige universe, and evil—
Although he knows not how I should feel.

I, had been enslaved by the worst sun;
And tied to the post of unwanted salvation.
I, not being the privilege of Life now;
I shall go tonight, and not return tomorrow.
I had enough love, but with no love to be,
I shall not halt to see this side of me.
And hark! By the solitary lights of the moon;
The Earth was once my saluted destination;
But who could fight for a savage battle
In an attempt to experience rebirth,
Born with no contempt for the world;
But with Remorse bludgeoned, and hurt,
As though I had committed but treason;
And living was just to hold a vain reason.

For such reasons would be censured venom;
To them, who raved not at my longest poems,
And my guilt’s blood would be their songs,
They had committed justice, and no wrong;
Which a dour soul could adore at a lonely night,
Whilst being mute towards the shifting trees,
Torture and denial were the nail of Sunlight,
Waking me up to the enchantment of ragged bliss.
Had I, another day, woken up to another peril;
I acknowledged my embedded fate as an Evil,
To recite the spells that had infuriated me,
An indolent vice that had but been meant to be.
An insult, that such straggled **** may hate;
But so, forgiveness is far a threat too late.

Such fortuities, I hath not cornered to embrace;
And I shall not be back to sing conned waste,
And by being gratuitous and to *******,
I want to be the handsome rebellion to my fate;
Had I found myself trapped on the defunct floors;
I could not escape marked death at Midnight's door,
And at that sick moment I had been flawed,
Frightened, slackened to my rawest flesh,
By the metal edge of a cut sword, and then;
I was but Death at the rotten night, my friend!
Such fiends, such rage—were far in their summer bliss,
And yet I but grew as a faint shadow in peace;
I watched their flaked nostrils from inside my tomb,
My tomb, and its scraped walls—my quiet home,
I could not breathe now, nor bend towards a kiss;
I was the soul the Earth had forgot, had missed;

I, roused again now as a darling apparition;
I wear a black mask and utter repetitions,
No soul shall want to collapse in my steps—and bolt!
I hath entrapped many daydreaming in sloth,
Those with looser complacency, and breath
In their nostrils lives such straggly wrath;
And in such hair so ricocheted and unkempt,
How canst one but find a stranded scarf, a lamp?
With the odour of blood I can taste, and yet
Makes my hungered mouth groaning wet,
I hath drunk from too many souls, and I
That shan’t live any more, nor shall I die;
Ah! Now I shall ****, and begin with the dirt—
Cleansing such Earth off of malignant worlds!

What a disgrace, a scraggly—yet resilient disgrace!
A bend in the road had I been, and was I mean
To the world but sought not to know me?
And at times of need, their race but leaned to me;
And their fair promises, and royals, had not been true—
Unlike the verity of the justice I had found, and knew.
Unlike my bosoms, that had faced too much sorrow,
These ghastly sighs and temptations shall know now;
I hath found the world to lay my head silently,
With no love to be, and cut my love reverently;
That the stars should watch us meanly, but sure
They would not be a stale aura to my picture.
But to die, to cease demurely without a certain name
Shall be one that feels not my pool of shame;
And t’is crime is no exception, o my lover—
I am exempt now, from the insolent love, forever!

What an imbecile, that we embraced to softly!
What a butterfly that cannot fly in me;
Not a life that holds my chest, nor my blossom
Not a purity that holds clear my poem, o thee!
An ink on the page, but yet ‘tis my story
That I want freedom to writ my fierce destiny.
What a blurred visage to my vision such is,
What a menacing world to want a kneeling kiss!
With no love to see, and with no called name,
They hath no trifling tales nor misspelled shame;
That I had perhaps been too morally confused,
That Death was ethereal, but coldly infused;
Ah, thou, so to thee Death is no exception—
Having not thought of my hurt, my inflammation!

For a living fate can be unassuming, and uncertain;
For humans can die, and be nauseous;
For such lives are a demerit; and for a friend;
For a destiny that can be true, but tedious.
From a love that I am already free,
From a love so ubiquitous; and in unison,
I am obliged to no merits, nor tragic beauty;
I shall seek and give no compassion, nor reason.
And in a vain attempt had I hastily tried;
And in a vain triumph had I sullenly dried;
And in bewitching the silky skies had I died;
So shan’t I return to the boisterous Heavens,
The Lord bitterly misplaced me, and lied
To me behind the graves, and rained gardens.

For in the days that followed my death, hath I sworn
To kidnap back the life that had been blown;
And be the Black Spirit they would find pertinent
To hear the trespassing of death, and their moments
To crunch the life of the ones before me;
Amicable as they were in their apposite defence,
But not as the lush presentation of their beauty;
That I should entrance and ****** them, hence.
Who couldst defend my murdered youth but me;
Who couldst strongly step on my bursts of anger;
Who couldst restore my prone poetry but ******;
Who couldst live but I, who lives forever;
Who couldst separate my from my agony;
Who couldst live but with ill fate, and be?

For the age that I hath lost, and thoughtless’ burnt
And of being grace, and kind hath I not heard;
And with delight, shan’t I stop and turn;
For no obvious reason, for no maddened alert.
I am stronger in my rebirth, and with sharp, strident
Steps, hath I grown more braced and confident;
For no reason, for no further light hath I doubted;
For no marks, nor discourse hath I faulted;
For such apologies, and humility are obsolete,
For my imagination of such is clear, and yet;
I hath no more obligations so, to be met—
And with such unwavering strength crystal clear,
And everlasting sleep to me so near,
I am to grow out of the vines of my grave;
And descend carefully on the midnight’s cape.
And yet, who is sleeping sweetly in his wife’s bed;
I shall soon send him into delicious death.

For the life that had been obediently drawn;
For the miraculous night that turned to dawn,
For the life that had belonged to me, and so
I am to be above the stars, and ever in the know
All my victims so sternly, thoughtfully, and deeply
I am to **** reverently, and by sweetness, vigilantly:
“I am to drink the redness, and be the Sun’s equal”
My voice singing through the forest’s damp halls.
And now yet, with the futile man dead in my arm,
I fling myself into another chained woman’s charms!
With her blood so capricious dripping down my throat;
I can feel myself furiously sweat, and sweetly float;
I am to rouse in transparency through the roof;
And be the midnight, no more aloof!

And to be the Spear of the universe, and hell;
I would like to wish every fault and demerit well;
Soon, there shan’t be the raucous singing of jingle bells,
Death is in everyone—eating off of their shells.
Ah! My lover’s flesh, that I am devouring eagerly;
Now is but a piece of provision so sweet to me;
In which I canst indulge in but a locked pain;
Feeding off of his blood and its red rain;
Ah, I am so hungry, and those eyes are for me!
He gasps, and I am free now, as the flannel sky;
I am free to haunt and grasp all about me,
I can feel their smell descend about so nigh.
My lover, and his vain woman of the scorched past
Are now in death, far from their sly voices and hearts!

And to be the Sword of the Space, and devils;
I feel honoured to be part of the evils;
And be the taunt and haunting to all men,
To all this Earth’s visions, emblazoned fiends!
To me, all of their deaths hath been inscribed;
Ever since I was grown from dead, and my lungs
Hath been imbibed with more pronounced vibes,
And choruses more awesomely sung;
I am to assimilate those humans, now, ha-ha!—
And be a creature of the night, the Hailed One,
They shall bow to me in flash, and in my old Stanza;
All murders are to be spoken, to be done!
My enemy, and his once powerful screeching speech;
Gunned down into his last breath, the gospel’s ditch!

And the vitriolic dream, now, that is too high;
I shall not stop until all petrified souls shall die,
There, above me, the afterlife writing in agony,
Justified in every sense, and be the last poem
That I shall write in my dated prose of destiny;
I hath become the Satan to destroy, and numb
All the rhymed births and breaths of life, ah!
I hath been ****** into this fate, of my own;
And be I never a praised, nor a soft wife—
Yet I am impressed already, by closed immortality;
And my youth forever, with its endless passion
And latest bursts that happen in eternity,
I am to counter and cure all my halted questions;
I shall go and return, I hath all the time in me!

And Ruthlessness, then, that is too holy;
I hath admired thee with all the blood in me,
And to restore the humanity in me prominently;
I shall **** all, and make their deaths permanently!
For all deaths are idyll to me, and my abode,
An abundance as I roam, and float about!
What hath happened to my human, and bold songs,
For they hath not been a sky to me, all along;
What a condescending spirit a human is,
For they think what a fierce not is;
Whilst all that is thin is bold, and a rose;
What a singing displeasure to my prose!
Ah, to **** all, and cherish all their dyings,
I shall cut and devour with my heart singing!

Then, into the skies, as I ascend I hear
All flowered flesh is but towering so near;
They hath heartbeats and clueless rainbow;
They are not to fight me with violence,
They hath no tyranny, nor are above my shadow;
They hath no abode—but my impertinence!
Ah, and blessed am I, so meekly blessed;
This is but the best day I hath ever had,
For so anger and betrayal are not unwise at all;
And so holy are miseries, and miseries are ******.
I am to **** more, and bring my joys to Fall,
I am to eat, and devour more in summer.
I am to drink more, and bleed in winter;
To celebrate deaths, and merry more in my walls!

Then, into the Earth, as I descend I see
That I descend with a later moon, and be
For all who loved me, there shall still be death;
For I shall arise amidst these unhearing walls,
For the many teardrops that were shed,
For the shrieking pains I shared, and their toll;
For the world, that hath not been too exquisite,
For the crowds, that hath all along lacked such wit,
For the Sun, that hath ne’er been a soul sweet;
For a love that ne’er had a single beat!
For a love that I hath fragrantly cursed,
For a love I hath determined to make worst.
I am to eat, as though I am the Sun, the West;
I shall put its whole black pit to sleep, to eternal rest!

With all good cheer hath I spoken, and thus I turned
To see further stomachs and chests lying down, churned
And eating off of them is a swarm of butterflies
That were stirred to life by my own puke of frights;
And I, spitting out but flames and fires from within me
And my mouth that hath burnt thousands of thee,
I am not afraid to claim my rights, as I please;
And to destruct far more indeed, as I wish—
Which I celebrate as an ordinary gift, and yet
Hath made and shall render all conscious souls mad!
And all about me hath gone to precious sleep
In their admiration of my prominence, and weep;
And all about me hath turned to obstinate death;
Ripped down of breath, and any traces of life, of late.

With sainted grand glory hath I writ, and rejoiced
The merry and cordial pleasures of deathly bliss;
For such splendour, are not lovingly present every day,
And the vanished worlds have become dear to me today;
That now, as I devour another’s wrist, and arms
I am absorbed within death’s knocking charms;
And his limbs offer farther delicacy than the stars,
And his soul be a playful drink two worlds apart;
Another one, that tastes like those fine vines,
And grapes, and the fruits smelling like Truths.
Ah! I sit there, leaning softly against the Cedar Mine;
Sipping his blood by the humming Eolian lute;
His veins dry and graze me, sickly, too fast;
I hath not had a drink and feast too vast!

And with deadening love hath I lived, and existed
In the world into which Faith hath not fitted;
Like the ode in me, trying to tie the Moon
Whilst such dimmed favours laid in the Sun;
I had been crafted only, but in vain
I had been transmitted also, but in pain
And all despaired, with my talents, to death
To be woken again in renewed hate;
What a fault of thine, o thee, and perhaps mine;
At times a rustic stupor to me, and yet is fine!
I am the Evil to be, and Satan so free,
At peaceful hours shall I come to thee;
Finding my ecstasy in Death and ******;
My civilian songs to the Earth, forever.

At least! There is no more soul to please
And I canst fly all about, as I wish;
And fantasize that the Night fakes a melody
Instead of a poised scream to me.

At least! There is none else I must be
For thou shalt, again, no listen
For such reasons are but quaint;
They all may think that I am insane.

And so, I am done thinking
Of all these twisted imaginations;
Thinking that roads are destinations,
Whilst they are just singing.

And so, I am done reading
Of the mind and my destinations;
For such pictures are just futile,
With hearts and fetal words dangling.

And who shall still strive through;
Watching over my thorough questions,
Whilst sung chords are no longer a melody,
And a melody leads not to love.

I cannot live meekly, and yet to leave;
I hath many aligned questions yet to give,
And the hardest things that are yet to say,
Although I cannot hear, nor stay;

I am the sickly sweet conundrum;
I hath only the sweetness of a poem,
And yet, not the intelligent I am,
None knows my soul, nor my name!

I am the freshly painted vision;
And yet to be, I am a *****!
None hears to glimpse, nor to listen,
The sweet of plain, poetic movements!

But yet! To be with the Moon to please
And as love remains the hardest Night;
Perhaps I am not the opulent Light,
That they shan't embrace, nor disguise me;

But yet! To be with Life to see
And yet none of these souls want me;
Perhaps all that are alive keep no virtue
Not that they shall sail again, anew.

But yet! To be with Life, and be
The sleep that smoothes all the Snow
And be there with endless time,
Be the one who knows all at once.

But yet! To be from my heart there
is but a constantly perilous fate;
Yet I shall not belong anywhere,
Nor that my ends shall be met.

But yet! To be from my heart apart
None of the banters ahead are virtuous;
And from tomorrow, chaste delights shan't grow
To be pure, to be in the know;

But yet! To be with Love and its Sigh
No wonder is bound to soar so high;
No power shall reach the greatest height
No truth shall be heard, nor bright,

But yet! To be with Fate and its Night
Our loneliness is the faintest friend;
And homelessness is the crude merit,
In the wait for new awesome clouds.

But yet! To be born anew, alight
Beside such fantasious rights, o thee;
For such feelings should be guilt,
And guilts are, normally, tight;

But yet! To glow as this sunlight
By the side of fabulous dreams,
Being the armour of loveless screams;
And such feelings, bold and contrite.

But yet! To sparkle at the bored Night
I might need my destroyed candlelight;
Although none shall attend to me;
Nor caress me in the heart, and be;

But yet! To bend at such glorious sights
And dance in imaginary beams;
Like there spread a thousand circles
With a hundred young poems, and gifts.

But yet! To glance at the sun, and feel
Such waves of poetry arise in me,
That only my words are my cold shield
With no rhymes to speak; nor to love me.

Ah! Your shadow was nice to me
In such a lunatic summer bliss;
But who is going to be in love again,
For love is dead, my friend?

And yet, in the wind, I can still see
That you once longed to be with me;
And who can say, and to be free
I am not to love, nor cherish today.

What is the feel of summer sunshine
You are not here, you are not mine;
And you are not to be near tonight,
All the fates in this world have been mean.

Who is to be my summer sunshine
And the gentle merit of the night;
To help make righteous the broken light,
Descend it upon colourful hues.

Who is to be my pale loneliness
And light up my soundless *****;
What is this painful, and thin bloom
Born to such weird brokenness?

Who is to comprehend my soul
And taint me with scorching cold;
I can no longer stand the summer heat
Too much to feel, too weak to need.

Who is to seal himself against such tears
And the bittersweet mouth of the Night;
Who sleeps behind the fluorescent light,
Beyond his amber sight, to embrace.

Who shall rain himself with my love, and be
The celtic rainbow I shall live to see,
And who hath lived, who wants more
To feel in love like never before?

Who shall be my poisoned delight;
And such delight can cause sickness,
To be kissed by me, the temptress;
In white senseless, sensous caresses.

Who shall be my white star, and moon
To be the gate to my afternoon;
And to begin as my lover
Into the lulled dream of forever.

Who shall be my curse, and fate
To be light and well just in death,
And tempt me more with regal breath
To live more, and not be dead?

Who is the temptuous wave, and craze
To make my life a swirling maze;
And in haze dab kisses at my lips
Living love at my fingertips.

Who is the choir, and violent chorus;
That I shall have forgotten rivalry,
And I, at that midnight, shyly blush,
Who can fight the handsome destiny?

Who is the strongest storm, and why
All the midnight earth is so dubious;
And love has had me curious,
In my daylight fantasy about the sky.

Who is the virtuous Rain, and then
I hath to run away, and begin again
To be born again like this, anew
Knowing thou hath been real, and true

Who is the vigilant Thunder, yet
The best of me is still in my head;
And not many theories hath been in poetry
I hath not excited all the joys in me.

Who is the vile Cloud, and thus
I miss winters still, and must
I shall love then, much as in a poem
And entrap love, as in words.

Who is the vicious dance, and hence
I shall not again be the sole *****
My heart, be home to another then
That he shan't ask why, nor when.

Who is the virile Night, and so
I shall stay about, be in the know
Who is to claim my song, and words
Who shall kidnap me in his worlds?

Who is the violent Light, and again
Who is to be my sarcastic dance?
I am just a faint, untouched *****
That in a sore halt, faded.

Who is to be my tasty Moon, and back
To be the love I hath yet to make
And to give, whilst I shall take
Behind me, by the lake.

Who is the triumphant Touch, and be
Beyond the buoyant Might to the sea
Entranced only by the transparent night,
Too risky to envision, but bright;

Who is the victorious, and he
From the voyage of Destiny
Crossing such seas, just all right
Arriving in the morning and at night;

Who is the colourful love, and me
Behind all the hatred and meanings I see;
I see there a wonderful light, and yet
I am ready not to transgress tonight.

At night! I am not a thought
Over the infamous sunlight;
But rather one with heightened breath,
A creature like all beings,
I hath life and sometimes death.

At night! What a solitary life
That I oft' bathe myself in blood;
It hath a romantic smell to touch
And fantasies on its very own,
Like the world around is torn
When I drink it, when I taste it.

At night! What a succulent sight
And dried livelihood, such might
Who may think of such grandeur
In the afternoon's bad odour?
The night presents to me a lovely light
To hunt and race towards the night.

At night! What a lovely lace
And fierce sigh to embrace;
Unlike those held stiffly in breath
I am at all in no fear of death,
And there, a thousand skies
Shall not watch my shaky lies?

At night! What a cold showdown
As I float in midair in town;
Every piece of flesh is tempting,
Now that my thirst is seeping
Through the dire brass of my lungs,
That I know not between us.

At night! What a sacred taste
Of one's opened flesh;
I am as violent as Desire itself,
And trembling as 'tis troubled night.
What if I cannot love, nor hear myself
That I can see the Light?

At night! What a bare heaven
Up there, that hath opened;
But again, 'tis committed to poor souls
And t'ose alive only, unlike me
I shall not breathe, nor be old;
Nor shall my stale beauty

At night! What a loneliness
A story, and yet a broken sadness
I shall wander to dusk and dust;
And pain myself with roaming lust
Shall I be the human, and again
I cannot flirt with the earth's rain.

At night! What a tasteless breath
The very end that feels like death;
When one ain't ill, and just no;
I cannot be here until tomorrow
I had love then, but 'tis now death
An apparition I hath not had

At night! What a wordless call
And yet I hath no longer words;
My lover, my human lover
Then, he died of my cold hunger
I hath been placed in my own hell;
And cannot fake such tears so well

At night! What a wondrous sight
Sitting in mercy by the rainbow;
Ah, my love, who was once in fright
Old as his human self by the window
And I, was not born to see the light
And he died, I could not know.

At night! What a clueless moon
And a rabid but endless tune;
And the cloud, but cannot speak
Although I wish to ask he sea
Within the reserved, but pretty week
To sail my lover back into me

At night! What a tireless roam
And I cannot stop even by my poem;
To devour such a long life
And hurt that may be tough,
Miseries that may be naive
Tears that may not be enough.

At night! What a severed sight
I hath, that I cannot fly right
Who saith I shall need such wings
That shall not read, nor sing?
I might just turn human by then;
Joining my love in death again.

At night! What a sturdy light
That awaits me behind the grass,
Satisfying me the whole night
And gone as more days pass
What is good, and what is rigid
Who shall come to me again, merry meet?

At night! What a buoyant step
And I may put again my cape;
I may not be late, but too sweetly
I hath to seek more life for me;
I may not die, but to die reverently;
For him, I shall dream for free

At night! What a childish touch
But there is no more time to watch,
I kneel down and sip hungrily
At the heartbeat dying down by me;
T'is time, 'tis of a village *****
Hastily split by her brown bench.

At night! What a cold April
And who knows what summer feels;
I might lay about to seek some idyll,
While the skies but a flamed torch
To read riddles of the far North,
And drink my heap, my Lord.

At night! What a sweet sick dream
To my lost love, my limb
I like to writ all in a poem,
And drink of love in my room
What is better than love, my life?
What is sweeter to kiss, my lips?

At night! What a shuddered rose
And a catchy, stunned prose
But I may not be a true lover;
A truth, that one always hides
After the setting sun, the thin nights
Who shall craft myself an ode?

At night! What a shimmered thought
That I had remembered about you,
About a song I knew was true
And we embraced, while seeing
The night was already looking;
And hark! The sour stars finally cheering.

At night! What a blundering smile
And hastened sweat of love,
A shyness that never leaves me
And my cheeks, my beauty;
I can rest here, and for a while
I think I can leave my everything.

At night! What a blushed cheek,
For love is so soft, so meek;
For my love is held in midair,
Given but treated so unfair,
I am gasping for some fresh air,
But shan't cry, nor care

At night! What a young heartbeat,
But again, 'tis not mine;
For human blood is always a cure,
Although cold, minuscule, and unsure
I hath no care what 'tis all about
My hunger is there, and frets too loud.

At night! What an insane bird,
And so shockingly treacherous;
O my love, should I vouch for thee still,
And be kind, whilst all stands still;
But again, 'tis as chilly for my poetry,
For there is no life for one like me.

At night! What a rigid flute,
That is flamboyantly blown still,
I may not be by the long route,
But I love you, and want you still,
The thought of humans make me sick;
But without such breath I am so weak;

At night! What a lifeless sun,
Celebrated by all inhumans;
I am nobody that one wants,
I neither lighten nor illuminate,
And I do not appear in one's dream,
I am a devil, and not as I seem;

At night! What a poet, and poetry;
A poetry wearing a black veil,
And is read out of the doors,
I hath written strongly across the moors,
I hath been invited by such discourse
And troubled itches, troubled sights.

At night! What a vast suburban,
On the outskirts of my last town;
And I have to move, yet, I do,
Although I am a recent and new,
And to be with the morn, too vague;
I am afraid I shall be too late.

At night! What an edgeless voyage
That has come of life, of age;
A stellar one as I go again
In search of new vinegar and friends,
And who says a vampire has much to make
Whilst 'tis all for their crude sake?

At night! What a holy night;
And sounds ring and sing about me,
Those of bloodied hearts none shall see,
And I coldly devour again before the dawn;
And be asleep in the afternoon,
To wake up to the solitary moon.

At night! What a clouded light;
And voices entrap me in unison,
Throwing about new destinations;
In which my rough food shall satisfy me
And intensify my rugged beauty,
As I have no halos under the sun.

At night! What a trembling sigh;
But to me all skies are not too high,
And heights shall ask me to play,
Basking my life in the glory of those days.
And who is the sun, to seep into me,
I am dead, just like I was meant to be.

At night! What a coloured weep,
Of everyone in their drowned sleep,
But who says a sleep is peaceful,
Alight in hell, and be healed painful;
And be astonished for days after,
Feeling like life in short is forever.

At night! What an adorned heart
Whose one can cheer from afar;
But to humans, love may be distant
So soon as there rises a new moment;
I, who cannot feel tinges of emotion
And its cursed, fatal passions.

At night! What a demure feel
That one may just fall ill,
For neither I nor they have shared passion;
My life is too full of temptations.
And who should soar into the night -
All love to praise the faint daylight.

At night! What a sanguine wish
That one may just cold kiss,
They wish they couldst do in person
With no reason, no concoction;
But what is a wish not so bright
That we canst only witness in daylight?

At night! What a passioned chest
That should be put to rest,
Hath it undergone too many tests,
Between the East and West,
And the fatality of our hunger,
That feels eternal, and lives forever?

At night! What a loving heat
That I feel all in a single beat;
That I am not cold in cold any more,
That I can see now, unlike before;
To attain such quietness, and peace -
To dream and be alight in midnight bliss.

At night! What a loving heart
That I crave for from miles apart;
And I just know that I love you,
And your eyes, being too human
I knew they would be true,
But could I still see you then?

At night! What a new love;
That was born from the hunt
That none wishes for, nor wants
But I was there, waiting for thee
Behind the furry fir tree
That one hath died, and another
Is born, to bind me forever

At night! What forbidden love;
For 'tis a human again, and madly
I have fallen in love too badly;
In my flights, my giddy travels
I may have fallen too naively
That I cannot stay behind the wheels.

At night! What a love in profusion
Dead then, but not in union
Ah, but 'tis all a story
Not in life, for I do love to tell
That I shall not feel deep, nor sorry
For love hath always been a hell

At night! What a love blooming
For one cannot stop cheering
In silence, like me, hearing
For another love to come, clearing;
That I can turn human, and to heaven
To a faith I should hasten

At night! What a love searing
All hate, all curses, all bearings
And I, a vampire, shall sing my song;
That I hath waited for love too long
But in my eternal life, o dear
Perhaps thou canst ne'er be here

At night! What a love tempting
And I cannot stop laughing
Until I am full of disgraced tears;
And not of untold fears
For fears are not mine, and not hours
We have no death, nor blurred hours

At night! What a love promise
For us to be wise, and kiss
I hath longed to have wedding bliss;
But again, I am not the first
For vampires 'tis all the worst;
I hath only my rhymes, my words!

At night! What a love story
That I canst only feel within me
And to swallow such gurgling tearsl
Wouldst be crowded, be weird
I hath no life to entertain me
Nor a lover to hear my poetry

At night! What a love tale
That I canst only relish in hell;
Perhaps, I am not like one my own,
In exhaust and fumes, I am alone
Under the stars and moon that know
I shall face every day, and tomorrow

At night! What a love kiss
That I dream of, like a butterfly
But all is indeed a tired lie;
In all eternity, hath I been cursed
And in all worlds, hath I hurt
For whose I hath no more words

At night! What a love wish
That I cannot blame mine, nor his
To all wise, that are not wise;
To all whiteness that is a lie
For love hath but been a thief to me
And a harm to my living sanity

At night! What a love charm
That I hath discarded from my arms;
For I cannot feel, nor see you
In growing anything anew,
I hath seen but too few
I cannot have you in my arms.

At night! What a love war
That I hath removed from my tales;
I hath shut myself off of the door
And be the one no-one tells,
Who shall choose not to be alight;
To love with softness and bright?

At night! What a love heart
And a soreness cast away
I hath not seen the night, nor day
And stayed stiff again, today;
I cannot play in the afternoon,
Nor face the loving, dancing moon.

At night! What a love joy
That I hath not to tease,
Nor to pleasantly annoy;
I hath turned to dust, and dust is me
Pale as the armour of my beauty,
Eternal to life, and I can be
Not to love, not to be free.

All night my finery stirred to life;
And the satire I formerly loathed
I hath not hated again, but in haste
I hath been torn, I hath been faulted.

All night I adored the mystic words;
My love, that I had come to behold,
What is with the pain of this loving thee;
Perhaps no poet is as unsure as I am.

All night the arts were about me;
I saw pearls and jewels in the backyard
And bequeath the stones on the roads
To my startled darling, my dear;

All night the excitement was all here;
As a euphoria I could hear alone,
As a misery that was also delight,
For they could not see my ****** night.

All night my virginity was bare;
And my whole poems were laid here,
All of them sounded too weird,
All being constant madness, and tears.

All night I saw flawless snow grow;
And sadistic winter lasting longer,
I did not hear what the rest said,
My long poetry was all I had.

All night I spoke to my chaotic discourse,
All sounds being an unheard chorus,
And the earth a distorted choir
That I wanted not to peruse, nor hear.

All night I was in my deep delirium;
I heard not the nest, and walls of my room
But I should indeed not have cared,
They were not there, not too fair.

Who art thou, young bud, young star;
T’is melody but sees stars in thy hair,
Being a magnificent heir of the moon,
‘Tis a dream, to fade away too soon.

Who art thou, a malevolent voice;
To invite me into the air and its kiss,
When all in the room is frozen fits,
To be in a lovingly sung winter,

Who art thou, a translucent shadow;
Why am I here, but not in the know,
And t’is insanity is just not part of me,
My vivid fate, the last of thine to see,

Who art thou, a transformed beauty;
That I wish could not barely grow,
T’is insanity, that feeds off of me,
Waiting for thine, craving for thee,

Who art thou, a soundless presence;
I hath not batted away the very moment,
And who is here, to signal my audience,
I hath writ not a stern movement.

Who art thou, a voiceless ghost;
What is with the scout and pouting lips,
But handsome still, like an angel’s
Too handsome that thou amazed me.

Who art thou, a dizzy thought;
But a melancholy dream of my night,
I cannot see though thy abundance of lights,
Thou hath me wince, thou hath me taught.

Who art thou, a mad apparition;
Shalt thou sing to my new destination,
That the folded flutes hath to perch away,
Leaving us free, distant from today.

Who art thou, a disgraced grass;
For the whole of lone words is in line,
That blood of thine, and heart of mine,
That I cannot hear, nor wander at rest.

For a soliloquy tune is disgrace,
And a haloed shame to the sun;
Who cannot understand my tales,
And the speed within their calls.

For silence is gateless to all,
And them, the souls I care for;
For none like me was theirs before,
They can hear not when I call.

For the one I hath come for;
And to whom the draught is too much,
To whom who cannot see in March,
To whom who cannot see the light.

For the one I hath longed for;
And to whom I cannot belong,
I am too much weirdness for his song,
I am too much worry, too many chords.

For a breeze of morning moves was here;
With the moon gone on another errand,
And my clouded love was not at hand,
I could neither sing to square tunes, nor hear.

For a ray of morningness, that was yet to faint;
And to reminisce about thee, fiend,
Like to behold without my heart,
To drench me, and my weird love in haste.

I said to the sun, “There is but a pen
Whom my heart hath come to cheer,”
But then it left me alone to no friend,
The last echo of winter had dried away.

I said to the rose, “The brief cold goes
As the bloated dawn has caressed me,
But who shall see, and be in the know
I have not seen cold from my window.”

I said to the water, “The river seems cold
But not like the one I hath beheld,
Perhaps what looks cold, is not cold at all
Perhaps ‘tis not a darkling like me.”

I said to the tree, “The trees being shunned
Because I hath had them speak to me,
None is to be startled by my beauty,
Nor be excited by such wan poetry.”

From the black meadow hath risen a fate,
And a tale like me is perhaps too late,
They, at night, are wanting to go to bed
To be enhanced whilst they sleep, not live;

From the black shadow hath risen a twig;
Red in its vanity like streaming blood,
And perhaps I am drawn to such curse,
For in darkness I see, and be my own delight.

From the black moors hath risen a ghost;
Running against me whilst all is quiet,
And the sun is raging, at fierce speed,
My love for literature is not seen, unlit.

From the black grass hath risen snow;
The fantasy only I could know,
And I, startled by the menacing heat,
Untouched by the cold, and its field.

I hath had too much of the sun, and yet;
No promise hath been formed in my head,
I hath longed to leave, but yet
I hath to swim still towards the sunset.

I hath had too much of holes;
That none is too spacious, no more,
I hath had scars and tears to count,
I hath sinned against the foster moon.

For every morningness, hath I had
A doze of morning breeze, hath not met
With such loving eyes of thine;
Those bitter memories I hath in mind,

For every bitterness, hath I heard
A sliver of darklings towards my face,
I am not so sour nor icy as my words,
Still, they shalt see not my haste.

For every sullenness, hath I feared
My books shall adorn just displeased tears,
They are in idyll, yet shalt still not know
They left me then, and live not now.

For every cursed fate, hath I laughed
Misery is just not more a tear enough;
I hath dwelled in sorrows yet to come,
I hath not lived, nor called theirs home.

For every cursed life, hath I felt
With sane words drunk and misplaced,
I hath not been loved, just hated
For my poor insanities, of late.

For every cursed sigh, hath I feared
All such teasing hath hurt so weird
What is there in the cult of a pain;
Is there a consolation, a friend?

For every cursed sight, hath I told
The riddles and threads thou shan’t behold,
I am neither fierce nor too strong,
But who shall listen, or hear my song?

For every cursed light, hath I seen
A fate so awkward and truly mean;
Behind the burns and oaks and trickles,
At my miseries hath they giggled.

For every cursed poem, hath I writ
And left my untold discourse unfit;
And who are they, with insolent merits,
Yet too souls with insolent demerits,

For every cursed word, hath I seemed
Too disobeying and lustful for one,
But what am I without my frantic dreams;
And a page of failed lunatic desires?

For every cursed soul, hath I screamed
‘Tis a world so cloudless and limb,
They hath all words spoken too loud,
And sweetness feels like a nightmare.

For every cursed ink, hath I dreamed
Of wandering my sweet solitary nights
Beyond the crescent shape of my room;
I hath enough insanities to writ my poems.

For every cursed call, hath I writ
That to be in love again is not to meet,
For who am I, a maddened bard;
I hath no charm, I hath no heart,

For every cursed tale, hath I met
Stories of all dryness and wet,
That clutch to my hearts and hands;
Wanting to be my sands again.

For every cursed love, hath I slept
And in a hurled little dream wept,
Who shall want to break me free;
Who shall trace the beauty of me.

For every cursed heart, hath I hoped
And in a quiet little tune I sung,
Who shall see that I am proud;
Who shall read my words out loud.

For every cursed rhyme, hath I said
With written words that are too late,
Who shall be the one in sight;
Who shall retreat to my troubled nights.

For every cursed pen, hath I waited
For a love painstakingly late,
And who shall be my comfort;
Who shall be mine, my lord;

For every cursed page, hath I kissed
Silence by ‘tis own western feast,
And who shall say my remnants of bliss;
Who shall recite my words in threes?

For every cursed line, hath I missed
And since I may never be his
Who shall see me and fallen worlds,
Who shall be kind to my words?

For every cursed touch, hath I been
Hath I been there, and in love
Who shall see me in my thousand skies;
Who shall be mine, and as wise,

For every cursed past, hath I gone
And returned back with my ale alone;
Who shall be here to here me pray,
Who shall be here for what I say,

For every cursed soul, hath I loved
And in a murmuring smile I prayed,
Who shall see me as I am today;
Who shall love me still, every day.

I regret falling in love today;
Love is no grander than rotten skies,
And falls away in bitter rain
Reminding me of disloyal time.

I regret having loved you;
Your fear has disobeyed me late
Enforcing me to remain unseen,
Drying by the cold remnants of you.

I regret having been there;
You, the very gale of southern lies,
You once told me to leave out there
And die at an unpoetic night

I regret having been your pain;
I shall go, and remain about,
For my love has always been silence
Dust and gardens are my solitude.

I regret having been your air;
I shall depart, but yet to live
By your side and lives to breath
Feels like itself an unfair death

I regret having been your soul;
I want to live with the rainfalls
And lay my head by the forest;
To writ whilst life is at rest.

I regret having been your heart;
I have put my pride at your feet
The game is over, merry meet
We are not one, but apart.

I regret having been your love;
You shall hear not, nor ever--
And for a poet too naive like me;
That only written roses can see.

Such is a night, in a thousand days,
Then I love thee in soo many ways
And what lies between here and there
Might I saint thee but anywhere?

Behind the grace which has a curse
I have written just too many words
And this feeling, that a hundred nights
Woke me to, like those random lights

What is more, and what is less
Can such a phantom make love painless
Clutching a youngster spring too brief
But shan't die, and always lives

So long as 'tis pain, and not fate
We may not be together, again
Like a lust to haunt, but that died
Within March's coloured rimmed lights

So long as 'tis late, and not again
I may not seek you in my rogue poems
For it hath long sailed across the winds
With the love songs of redeemed sins

So long as I paint you, and not once
I have loved then, for a hundred months
To kiss thy pretty, but unheard truth
To murmur all these crazes, a few

So long as I writ you, and hold anew
Like the rose that might be new
Aided only by a caterpillar-like sun
Lost in the morn's unguided moon

So long as I draw you, to my arms
Like a sketch with italic charms
I hold your fate, and idol's poems
I keep all your drawings in my room

So long as I hold you, but not mind
'Tis a sanguine reason still, to be one
I have expected wine and a white kiss
To not be wise, to have a little bliss

So long as I hold you, hold you still
To run around with too much to feel
With a love to guard, my soul beholds
Such a desire too strong to hold.

So long as I see you, 'tis untrue
Such summer colds that barely knew
The ties of a right lie, and the spring
I miss you within the tunes they sing.

So long as I miss you, and I love
Sighs and disgrace being far from enough
The furs of a silent truth, and me
I have writ wan poetry thou shan't see.

So long as I have you, and fly free
With plain lithe eyes that are not me
I may have loved for far too long;
Calling out to you in my fourth song.

So long as I think more, of thee
What is the crossed feel of the sky?
That knits at the night, and be
Dark, in its spoilt sight of thee.

So long as I long for you, then why
How shall our meres touch, and gaze
At the southern patch of grass
That oft' not frequent love too fast

So long as I want you, then run;
My feelings have all grown numb
As though 'tis an umbrella under the sun
Underneath the eastern hum

So long as I kiss you, then free me;
But to be free is to love you
And the tales that can never be;
I have no signs, I have no clue

So long as I hear you, and be mine
I have wanted to fall in thy line;
I like you there, beneath the sky
You are there for me so high

So long as I love you, come to me;
To relate to me an awkward song
I may be asleep, but love is no wrong
A thousand suns, all along.

I have not been awake, and again
In a trembling word, I have written.
I have a sweet song, not worthy of you,
If you were true, you could be untrue.
But who is your soul so clear,
Who were you, why would you hear?

O, sweet soul, hath thou but no glory over me,
Such a misery ain’t more mysterious than the sun;
More furious than hells can be,
But who says I shall understand thee
Who says I shall stay dumped,
Who says I shall stay trapped?

Perhaps, upon the death of such winds
T’is sad love is to be made unseen,
For like a battled desire
That ever floats about captivating raided skies,
Such a love never catches the rain,
but dances and falls into the sun.

Perhaps, upon the dying of the night
‘Tis the sun that shall rise,
And like a pictured light that dies
I could not meet you again in the skies,
To hail you back into my arms,
To wound myself, to live the evil past.

For a breeze of morning lights,
The planet of Love is on high,
But have you not, have you seen me?
I am like a lonely star in the rain,
And that bed of daffodil skies,
That clutches my single dose of cries,
Holier that they wanted to be,
But not a faint one to thee.

To dance with the drugged jasmine,
To dance in crowned loneliness.
To be tied to worried heat,
By  the mirth of a golden summer,
To laugh, but not in freedom,
To scold the unknowing nights.

To be in love, but not to love,
And to feel, but not to feel,
To feel not a whole, but half
Of my heart has been like a tattered sky
And soundly tears are not even there, no more.

I said to the rose, “The brief noon
Has gone, and so have its hairs.”
I heard no more, and thought ‘twas silly
To question its red poetry,
Whose sighs were those, and
Would thine ever be mine?

For such sworn words are bashful,
They cling to but avert me
Through the obnoxious night and day.
Such vanished worlds existed to me
Back then, in the rolled vine forest
But all hath now gone, scorching
Themselves in everlasting rest.

And whose promise was given to me
For none was like it at the brief night,
Nothing much of a rustling delight
When I had had a young day in wine,
And I had betrayed all in disguise,
Whose love is there now, to catch me wise?

And the soul of your height was in my blood,
And so was your skin, your fleshy touch
As the music of winter rang in the hall,
And long by the petrified garden I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall,
I heard your memories twinkling on my road,
About my asleep, unconscious reveries.
Who would say I had not called your name,
Your name that is the dearest of all.

On the grass your steps are seen so clear
As those perfumes on the street stones,
I have never smelled any so dear,
My love, my sweet, my young heart.
My heart, that hath swollen in t’is heat
My darling, that I have left, but merry meet.

In the meadow then, your love so sweet
In the eerie untouched March wind,
Just like when we had met in November,
By the amber wood brown as your eyes,
The hollow gravel road that followed,
Meeting your gleeful shade tomorrow.

Our slender, our slender winter,
Full of milk, and magnolia trees in white,
You have hunted me again at eerie nights,
Even by the crying lights that have loved me,
A ghastly shadow that shall not leave.
Knowing your promise to me,
The lilies and roses are all awake,
They have sighed for me and melted for thee.

Our taller, our taller moon
Full of yellowness, and glinting green
You have haunted me and my weight of sins,
And made of me what I want not to see,
To apply the sun to my face, and blood
To apply such sins back again to my heart.

There has fallen a splendid star
From the grinning flower at the gate,
He is coming, my dove, my heart,
And the white leaves cries, “He’s late,”
And tells me I should not wait,
To turn around the bush then go,
Leaving his careless face, in the know.

There has gone a sweet universe,
A parting of my lover and verse,
He whose soul was uniquely sweet,
And ever is as, again, I remember,
I remember the days in cold and heat,
I do remember the memories, forever.

He is coming, my love, my sweet,
The air here is no more real,
Were it more than a spacious threat,
I would still hear no more, but hate,
To call out to the unheard name,
To call out to the fallen fall.

He is coming, my blood, my dear,
He is to love, to be back here.
And I am to love, to be again in love,
I have been in love in these four years;
Never have all these been so true,
Never have I heard, but it will be new.

And who says a lot about the tangled rose,
Now that the setting moon is gone,
That I have loved still the mist,
That I have believed in such bliss.
Cursed is the sun, and I believe it sobs
I heard the night sever its hopes.

I said to the Moon, “Gi’ me back my love,”
It told me it was dawn now,
And then dawn approached, I knew,
Turning all ripped anguishes to spring.
I could not sob, I could not sing,
I was not to long for everything.

I said to the Sky, “How gullible you are,”
But he said to me I would still love,
That I would not care, but to write
I would still care for your silent nights,
I would foster away my solitude
And read aloud my sober thoughts.

I said to the Stars, “How far you are,”
But they told me they wanted to write,
That to excite poetry here with me,
And such arts, to them, ne’er sleep;
The Stars are offspring to my lips,
Gasping words at my fingertips.

I said to the Rain, “How tame you are,”
It gave me a clear reason to behold,
For such a shower can be more daunting,
I have none in sight, none to hold.
All the risks I have taken in me,
All those sighs, smiles that I can be.

Hence! Even then I love you still,
And to see your smile, o my darling,
New joys are born, and stirred to life,
Bending towards me, singing,
Climbing their way into my thoughts,
And from the valleys underneath
Overcoming altogether t’ese bitter joys.

Hence! Even then I fancy you,
Speaking to me in shadow and flesh,
Although through a red flushed face,
And all is false, trembling in weird lies.
Coming to me in death’s daily form,
Having you by my side feels warm,
And to cuddle you here, in my arms,
Unlike the other bloodless, friendless nights.

Hence! Even then you live in me,
As you will always continue to be,
With a trickling love ever fresh to me,
With a hollow cheek and faded eye,
Like the chatter that shuns,
A hatred that sleeps while ‘tis awake.
I am lost here, with thoughts I yielded
And the dreams my rose shielded.

Hence! Even then you, a loving sight
Dearer to me than all hushed nights,
With one green sparkle and beyond
You remain as my everlasting song,
To make me write all over the morn
I have loved you still, all along.

To the Moon and back have I loved you,
To the Moon, that I have loved for too long.
You cannot even see me within this song,
You cannot love nor see me anew.

To the Moon and stars have I missed you,
I have seen your sins, and hearts *****,
I have searched for you around the sun
I have longed for you, trapped within me.

To the Moon and skies have I writ,
With not so much merit and a little wit,
I have loved you in a single heartbeat,
I have left you but, my darling, merry meet.

To the Moon and the heart that I knew,
There are not many words to utter,
That such feelings have gone forever,
And have you loved me, forgot me not?

To the Moon and lungs of the earth,
Have I loved again, within my breath?
Have I lost my poems and sights of death?
Have I been sunk in your cold wrath?

To the Moon and the rigid Sunshine,
I have believed not in your fate,
That such a chill still catches me by surprise
That such choices may not be wise.

To the Moon and Earth have I told you,
That all is not much like a children's tale,
Perhaps I can go again, wish me well,
There is not much of a love like you.

To the Moon and life have I seen you,
I have loved you as my fate, a fulfillment
That to wishful dreams such is a mate
Not to be with theirs, not too late.

To the Moon and Night have I seen again,
Have I read, and devoured frank white tales,
Have I longed, have I dreamed, and kissed
Have I fallen in love with a young twist.

To the Moon and breath have I heard,
And all was a nightmare to my chest,
The morning, such a shy dawn,
Is unlike any other night I have seen.

To the Moon and Light have I sworn,
That such a poet has sainted a tone,
She sits and stares, all in silence,
Love is love in her white solitude.

To the Moon and Fate have I told,
Such white nights are to behold,
And within them is a scary love,
What is not a scary tale to me.

To the Moon and Rise have I called,
Around the skies and earth to reach you,
You, whose gaze made me bare and anew,
I, who saw all the lithe winds in blue.

To the Moon and Snow have I gone,
To want to bring you to me alone,
To make myself known to such grace,
To love you and back again in haste.

To the Moon and bliss have I sworn,
That such a desire is not forlorn,
As far as my stories can tell,
So long as my lifeless dreams are felt.

To the Moon and shapes have I wanted,
I have wanted you like none else does,
With a ****** rose and sea that last,
With an ocean at present, of the past.

To the Moon and storms have I swum,
In such coldness, all longings must go numb,
But who would astound such loving feelings
Who should say yet, ‘tis a morning?

To the Moon and lands have I been,
To the swathes of love of the Neverland,
But who would whisk away such strange love
While there is much, there is enough?

To the Moon and day have I reached,
That such a chest is not bare, no more,
I have filled my love with a thousand days,
I have teased my sight with a hundred lights.

To the Moon and shores have I dreamed,
With a dark slice of weariness up high,
A tinge of bitterness is in your eyes,
A hint of sweetness at my sour nights.

To the Moon and heart have I sent you,
To the vast love I have unleashed,
That I want you but more in my arms
To such spilling lights, to such a free fate.

To the Moon and Sea have I sainted you,
In the so much rain like I used to,
I have sprinted to you, and run back again
I love you in the sun, under the rain

To the Moon and Soul have I burned you,
That you remain but a naive flesh to me
One that propels my heights, my destiny
One that I have all here with me.

To the Moon and words have I writ of you,
And chosen you to be my serene song
I have loved you with such trueness
I have loved you for too long.

'Tis getting late, and I miss you,
I miss you like I used to do
Your cold and clear and fair air;
The winds that followed me everywhere

'Tis not fate, but there was a poem,
I used to read at night in my room
Summer was gone, and I looked at the sky;
You were there to me, to my sight

Coventry, why did you falter me;
Why did you take it all away
You are not here to see me write;
You are not here to comfort my fright

Coventry, why did you love me,
Why did you make me go away
There was more love I wanted to give
There was a life I wanted to live.

Coventry, why did you touch my heart
With such a fatal and hard song;
That I could not take in return
That I had no voice to sing all apart.

Coventry, why did you burn me
And sink my white love back in the sun
And my cold winter, my solid night
My justice, all that had seemed right

Coventry, why did you **** me
Why did you peel my love at once,
And used a sword to seal my words,
To break astray from my whole world.

Coventry, why did you forget me
Why was all to you a lie
And was my love but a faint shadow,
In the white meadow, like one that has no tears

Coventry, why did you drown me,
With a lie that has grown false
Have you forgot the words you perused,
The poems of love, my soul's wisdom.

Coventry, why did you fail me,
Was I but an absurd flute to thee?
A flute that has in its chest no song,
Did I love thee for too long?

Coventry, why did you lie,
And make me look at the murky sky?
That day there was no cloud in sight,
None to be, and none to love again.

Coventry, why did you go,
I am not free, and I cannot be,
There is too much darkness, to be here
Too much that I shall not hear.

Coventry, why did you turn,
There was but none new to burn
And you could have loved me,
I was like a lost bird in the fir tree

Coventry, why did not you forgive,
Had I been mistaken much to live?
Had I been unloved too much,
Had I come from too far away.

Coventry, why was there no reason,
At summer, there was no more season
And why did you bring me back,
Why did you not wait for me.

Coventry, why did you make me cry,
When I had too much love to give,
And all of my heart has rusted away
Just like you want it to have, today.

Coventry, why did you make me sad
And it feels like there is no more to read,
And no more blood in my heartbeat;
All was sorely left in my last poem.

Coventry, why did you alter me,
That I had nowhere else to be
I had no other poetry to love in sight;
In my conscience, at the truest nights.

Coventry, why did you leave me;
Why did you steal my voice today,
You tore my rains and kisses away,
You made me cease to love.

And here I am, back in my anthology;
Although I have immersed myself in clouded sleep,
Whose sickly sweet could heal me no more;
I was but a tempted dawn in his lap,
A frail daughter of fate, and chastity;
My fatal sleep alone was a curse, to one and others.

Silence, beautiful voice!
How should I instill thee—and instill thee more?
And how wert thou so aloof, though deeply poised?
For every breath that I writ, and taste
is but a luminous sign of death;
an unhappy ding towards my presence,
and its mortal cringe, that is ending by the day.
And thus in such a life there is no wit
Nor cold enough, to redeem its wrath;
A wrath that shall leave this earth untouched,
A grime that hastens much, that all joy
Shall sicken and roam fast, unconsumed.
Why should all be jolly—but not to me,
Not to me, a dutiful daughter of my past,
But whose heart has hurt, by its last;
Whose tears are pure, but not profound;
Ah, me, whom such bland minds scorn in their right,
Me, whom their commoners refuse in plain sight,
Me, whom hath lost my dream of the arts,
Me, whom hath died of my own screams at night!
Ah, who am I but to redeem my joy again,
and claim a delight that was not my friend—
Ah, and which conscious soul is but to comprehend its right,
The extraordinaire of which—that are not moral nor righteous,
Nor are their tendrils—which are not even theirs,
At such a hand full of perils, risky and scandalous.
Who is longing for the pearls of a vision,
Who yearns but for love, for reincarnation,
And no love is dubious, none that remains,
But oblivious, a dire threat to its loving friend;
My fate has lost its way, to the white and cold,
My love has gone, and shan’t be with me again.

Where is but my poem, my little flushed cheek,
Why were you yesterday so smooth and meek?
Where did you hold my destiny, with a fate so clear,
Why did you choose to love me, with a love so weird;
But with no real heart to love me, and my judgments,
Shall I but be allowed to make judgments?
For there were too many taunting ways in which love swore,
And again I was dragged to the vile hot shore,
So my wisdom has raged in a swath of labyrinths,
Too painful for a soul too mean, but not a poet;
Too indecisive to read, let alone to comprehend,
And too unloved to understand, nor seek in a daze,
Perhaps unloved by its own words, like a ******,
Immature in their own corrupt years, like you are;
You are a naïve product of my mind, you are pure,
Of whose love never my sound thought is so sure,
Though hastened by a bare world not ours,
Nor a cycle that is mine, with pain so sour.

Silence, my love; and let briefness lulls you to sleep,
To the lethal eternity which salutes you, be gone,
Gone away like an eerie fairy in mortal dreams,
With their gates ajar, welcoming you in such
clamped dramas, a loveliness without thee,
A cheapness I would not by—nor defend
On the name of my artistic soul.
Did my lavender greet you and cherish you again,
And shall such a loving bud be that of thine;
But to speak less, and remain silent, o my friend—
is but a garment; a nicety to the friendly mind,
Oft’ cornered in daylight, but glazy to the lone night,
The night is kind and festive, unlike the wan sunlight,
Rotting ever is its flesh, dimmed by such sharp sins;
And grandeur and artiste which I once befriended,
That I was a deep dear of whom—‘till I was torn,
By the disfigured spring and summer
Blaming the poor beheaded winter,
A thousand miles from here, into the West yonder.

But who is to love by the spring and bright,
But who is to listen, to hear by the moonlight,
To linger forever ‘till I catch your sight,
To hesitate to claim your love, forever;
Which steals and shine on a lie, that eternally;
Who stand not by my side, in a fateful wake
Of dozens of seas and shores—and untouched dust;
And then all died, so that I ask you,
My literature, whose heart has been but one love,
Whose heart been pained, and disgraced;
In a suited torment and whirling betrayal,
To see once more, a night of sparkles and shades,
To rejoice by a lake of wind, and beautiful glades;
To relish more the charm of poetry, and the beastly—
but glorious freakish rain, so long as you are with me.

In a thought of mine, springs the midnight air;
All is my free beauty so cold and fair,
And I am devoid of a hundred stellar suns;
The illiterate to read, the stifled anguish gone.

In a thought of thee, springs the buoyant mind;
A painting so clear with an electric lair,
That all are a guitar and drum, as it sounds;
That a renewed love has been found.

In a thought of ours, springs the forest rain;
A poem to dim down that eternal drain,
To cease the doubts, and decipher all pains,
Bring me my sweet love, my immortal friend.

In a thought of love, springs the live sonata;
That all hesitation is a panorama,
Like the dramatic act, and its tragedies;
I shall sink myself in thy melodies.

In a thought of breath, springs the sweet song;
That battles rage and its dark humour,
That all mirages shall live in downpours,
That all happiness shall last a night long.

In a thought of fate, springs the sweet poem;
All in my life is a literary grandeur,
All within me desires to writ and love;
All about me in a satin room.

In a thought of joy, springs the sweet tale;
I shall wish thee the best of all and well,
I shall wish thee love, and a story to tell;
In one decreed satire, and hurried wedding bell.

In a thought of two, springs our promise;
All my nightingale and its sweet bliss,
Who is to cherish thee, so grand and wise;
Who is to be thine, so wild as a surprise?

In a thought of one, springs unity;
That all thy beauty shall be rain and youth,
And a word of love forming in my mouth;
And two hearts joining into eternity.

In a thought of bliss, shall I be here;
Such miracles shall be found near,
Who is then to listen to bare wisdom,
Concealed behind naïve truth, inside a poem?

In a thought of light, shall thou be loved;
Among the thousands of larks in the woods,
For I have chosen you to be in my words;
To be my little star, to be my beloved.

In a thought of wind, shall we find cold;
For cold itself is peace on its side,
A turmoil blending into our awake night;
A disgrace dying by a thousand lights.

In a thought of cold, shall we find grace;
Naïve in its glimpses of faltered fears,
But knowing us both yet not;
That it can but challenge the tears.

In a thought of warmth, shall we find youth;
Its spirit shattering the tearful past,
And shall we run, to find in which another smile,
And wipe all our painstaking breaths away.

In a thought of theirs, shall we find hate;
Its song slaughtering the daisies of fate,
In its velvet ways that are so simple;
A harmless perfume to the demented world.

In a thought of Him, shall we find peace;
No prayer shall be void to a sacred move,
And then I shall unite myself with thee;
Like the song sings, the poet and her love.

In a thought of you, shall we find ways;
Perhaps hidden and buried in eerieness,
No thought is too airy, not in the day;
No space is too mild, nor are they cold.

In a thought of us, shall we find life;
You are my rose and magical truth,
That who refills my chest and breath,
That who delights in me, and my red fate.

In a thought of life, shall we find ease;
All about life are roses and raging beasts,
There is happiness to forgive sins,
There is joy to a poem, and what it means;

In a thought of breath, shall we find love;
That no wrath comes near, that we find home,
That poetic arch of mine and thine,
That all lust and enormity are gone.

In a thought of night, shall we be there;
Holding each other and on to the air,
That all tears sound hastened and weird,
That our damp love is all I care.

In a thought of charm, shall we be free;
All the storms that are not tears,
And freedom that shall be here,
Presenting itself to be with me.

In a thought of rain, shall we be fine;
And in one leap of joy, thou shalt be mine,
And be my poems and words everlasting,
In the dark of the night—by the morning.

In a thought of gloss, shall fear be gone;
And my sheer heart shall be thine alone,
Be my poem a book that chastely sings,
Be thou an angel that has wings.

In a thought of truth, shall life be ours;
That all is a tale at midnight hours,
And be like a poetry of unity,
My heart lives there for eternity.

In a thought that vast, who thinks about the past;
When we crave for the poem that lasts,
And who is to fret at this new wonder;
My heart lives there forever.

In a thought that wild, who thinks about sad;
My past has left my whole mad,
Agitated by our renewed delight,
Terrified by our new dewy night.

In a thought that hastes, who says about poetry;
That all is a song our hearts can bear,
That all is enjoined lips, and their beauty;
That all is more than what they wear.

In a thought that sees, who frets about love;
That love is a substance cold and free,
****** only between you and me,
That love is a word, and words are enough.

In a thought that hears, who trusts but words;
That words shall witness those who speak,
That there is idyll in such truth, and worlds,
That words are honest, but not sickly.

In a thought that listens, who saints the sun;
There is too much hate in its glued merit,
That all is a gale but not a careful breath,
That all is bitter, and not at all sweet.

In a thought that loves, who says about love;
That love is hidden within your bare voice,
And your bare voice, in your entangled chest,
The very place I shall find ease and rest.

In a thought that writs, who says about wits;
All is mortal when they have not to say,
That they are blind at night, and in the day,
That their flooded souls shall find none too sweet.

In a thought that reads, who says about fits;
All is silence so far as the eye can see,
And who is there to flock my solitude?
I am far from the sun; and its mock servitude.

In a thought that thinks, who is to love lust;
For lust shall lose hope in one curt day,
That all is there only for the sun,
Bathed in hotness, charmed for nakedness.

In a thought that bears, who is to love hate;
For hate is the chain of every devil,
And in whose devil the world shall lay,
As that in ours, through the night and day.

In a thought that springs, who is to lose thee;
I’ve all along in the glistening white chamber,
My whiteness has been purified close,
I shall not be gone, I shan’t be lost;

In a thought that lives, who is to writ’ thee;
I’ve loved all the while in life, and in my words,
That I’ve given my love there—and so to thee,
That I shall breathe, so long as thou love me;

In a thought that breathes, who is to love thee;
I’ve loved all the years, and meanwhile,
I have been pained, and yet shall not fail;
I’ve loved and carried you still, all the while.

In a thought that whirls, have I dreamt of thee;
That such a thought shall make me sane,
And such a curse is devoid of pain,
The curse to love thee dearly, my friend;

In a thought that bursts, have I been thine;
That all solitude shall, at once, be fine,
And our bliss is faith, and faith is tonight;
I shall wait for thee by white moonlight.