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.

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.

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.

The sun has gone and it all feels good;
Autumn has started in a fair dry mood.
Autumn has always been dutiful and fair,
I love its appealing night air.

The wind has stayed and dripped more;
A promise to my fall and ripe words,
Who is a poet but one with fine taste,
Who is she but the offspring of grace.

And the poet within me screamed;
Late words are rich and but not a dream,
I jolted awake at a dark night,
I saved my soul and my autumn light.

And the poet within me told;
There are too many verses untold,
Their idle fate shall not awaken them,
And without touch, they shall not bloom.

And the poet repeated many times;
That I ought to retreat to my fine rhymes,
To salute my old self with renewed breath,
With a conscious mind and eager taste.

And the poet stressed her meaning;
My verses are sought for their singing,
That I should soon shove myself awake,
That there are too many tales to make.

I grew wakeful in two mere seconds;
There was a fair line for me to see,
I opened my eyes fast that morn,
I sensed a new rhythm about me.

I jumped alive with freshened breath;
I stirred to life on the sun’s death.
Nor is my love alive, no more,
I have less to love, but not my words.

Falsehood has left me too accustomed;
Everything is false outside of my poem,
That I could live and love but my own tales,
That I could only breathe within their veils.

But who is to love me when love is awake;
Who is to dream of me behind the lake,
Who is to notice the rustling of my leaves,
Who is to read me when love lives.

And who is to say my love lies in words;
For all has been a joke within these worlds,
All is fire and fury inside their jealousy,
The ecstasy I cannot abolish, and free.

I am accustomed to their boasts of gold;
I am too idle to further their stories told,
I am the love and life of my own ends,
The heart of my mortal fate, and hands.

I am the idle daughter of toil and madness;
I am the author of all beings and darkness,
All sight to me is youth and remarkable,
All winds are idyllic, all ruins are humble.

I am the foliage that never rusts;
I am the joy that shall never pass.
I am the delight that goes with you,
I am the nigh sigh that is real and true.

Even the beastly suns cannot reach me;
And their scorching wit that shan’t see.
They all shall shrink in the mirth of words,
They all shall run and flee the woods.

Even such misery deters me not;
Nor such tales I have not offered,
I am sane in my every effort,
I am true to my every word.

Even such falsehood wanes me not;
Nor such poems I have writ,
Nor the tales I have told,
Nor the two fateful ends that meet.

And has the shaking of minds left me unshaken;
And the lies of love leaving me untouched.
Who says but being loved is not a burden,
Who says that mortal joys shall ever last.

Who says that being in love is not a torture;
Who says that it takes minutes, not hours to love,
Who says that love is certain, love is sure,
Who says love is not a cry in love.

Who says love is not a morbid show;
Who says love shall always hear and know,
Who says but love shall never go,
Who says but love shall stay today, and tomorrow.

Who says love loves in its blood-red chamber;
Who says love is not bound to a curse.
Who says love is striking in its own light,
Who says love can but see throughout the night.

Who says love is not a part of sleep;
Who says love is awake, when ‘tis asleep.
Who says love can adore oneself too deep,
Who says love is at the night hours, to weep.

Who says love is too awake to be blind;
Who says love is watchful in her own mind.
Who says love is not but a murky statue,
Who says love can awake much of me and you.

I am too frail in my own literature;
Having tortured by daylight’s rude slumbers,
I fell in love on their dull torture,
Forced to feel on the sound of words.

I am too blind to sweetly love, and hold;
I am a mind ‘twas once too cold,
A ****** that was a disgrace to thee,
Thou wert incapable of loving me.

I am a threat to creation;
The betrayal of love and its judgments,
The death of merit and attachments,
The gaiety of evil and separation.

I am a deceit to gluttony and lust;
That a sign of madness would soon disrupt,
That all should remain a vain attempt,
That would soon confuse love and lust.

I am a disgrace to existence;
That all I have loved is everlasting pain,
That all is but a blind conscience,
That all is heat and there shan’t be rain.

I am untold in my own fortune;
That all is not a story nor tune,
That all is rage but not a tale told,
That all is heat, not a day cold.

And there is literature but no love;
For words themselves shall suffice,
For my heart is not ripe, not enough;
For my heart does not understand lies.

And there is not fathoming but madness;
Harm and anger in their strange noise,
Tired of their idleness,
Sick of their ill bliss.

And there is not found a conclusion;
That all is rigorous but shan’t know,
I have lived but a sour oblivion,
That all is present, but not tomorrow.

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.

The love poet of mine
the first time I met
When the sun ceased to shine
when the sky was nearly red

The love poet of mine
is now but far away
Still in my mind I remember afresh
How he smiled to me that day

He is the owner
of the most magnificent eyes ever
He is a lover
who is passionate and bright and tender

In his eyes were hues of endless greenness
On his lips was a grin of warm friendliness
In his words was an utterance of clarity
On his skin was gleaming boyish yet perfect beauty

He loves to write and he's fond of words
He cheered my day and he made me sing
While everything was but dark and unforgiving
He lifted me up and he crowned my soul

My poet, it is just here and now
That I remember the very day we met
The day I was fulfilled and entirely blest
A memory that shall forever be neatly kept

My poet, you have all my awe and inspiration
You are my splendid timeless shining star
You released me from enmity and indignation
You guided my steps you painted my future from afar

My prince, it is just here and now
That I replay our brief memories all over and again
I wish you could remember me somehow
While my dreams are distant, my vow will always remain.

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.

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 cry in love, I love in hate
Sorrow that no-one should create
When no being touches my heart's brake
It's thy own image that I'll make.

O I adored, thy single soul
As I caught thee about t'is hall.
Thy voice was just warm as the wall;
yet white and charming as rainfalls.

Let me squeeze life out of thy hand
And watch thou cry in duly pain
Writhe in agony whine in vain
While thy soul just begins to drain

Let me breathe in all thy last strokes
Before thy voice ends in one choke
Write the last poem 'fore comes the night
While thy last glance slanders the light

Let me put an end to thy love
To this eloquent morning dove
Let me have it before thou die
So that I have to no more lie

Let me kiss thee just here and now
Say my last words and denied vow
Love that I but hid in despair
Love that filled my life warmed my air

Let me caress thy cheek once more
My sole indulgence my chest's core
Let me hear but thy last joke since
My heart's darling, my flawless prince

Let me cherish just this last glee
Hug thee beforeth thy soul goes free
Recall our chats and old songs
Love poems that have been burnt for long

And just now before thou depart
For thou'rt the kingdom of my heart
Though thou would never be with me
I love thee, I love only thee.

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.

What's it, what's it that makes me smile-
when I think of thee for a while?
Let t'is sunshine, balmy and dry-
warm our hearts as it walks by.

O but today my heart gladdened-
yet as we stared my cheeks reddened!
Upon my journeys down, downstairs-
'midst th' morning and evening airs.

Thy handsome face came into view,
made my feelings dance like white dew.
Th' moment thou showed me that grin-
I knew that my heart thou would win.

Thy presence was but a rhythm,
th' best that my heart could employ.
One a tempest could not destroy-
one destiny could not fathom.

Thy being is th' love I wish,
in my wild dreams and fantasies!
Ah! and thy soul just what I outta please;
a fate my maidenhood shan't miss.

I'll wait for my victorious night-
when no-one else is within sight.
Thy arms opened awide for me;
as I swing outside to find thee.

And I but hope later that day;
thou wilt no longer leave and stay.
To own th' lips I'm fated to kiss,
and wed our love in sacred bliss.

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.

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.

He is my guide, he is my guide
He is my light, he is my light
Of my passion yet he knows not
His tender gaze is all I've got

A lover he has in his arms
The one who can relish his charms
Oh I'm envious I'm so jealous!
How that news was so horrendous!

He is indeed all that I want
From his love I can never run!
But how is it to make him mine?
When to the signs he remains blind?

His eyes my song his lips my poem
His grief my cries his tears my doom
God make me his only princess
and his final future mistress

God I shall love and care for him
As sunset comes and day goes dim
'Till only death sets us apart
Shall I give him my entire heart.

Your disgrace has had thee mortal, my sire;
You rushed me mindlessly, to my desire,
Only to disengage me in a warned hurry,
On a wild night, in the kiss of unasked beauty.

Your **** has failed thee alone, my prince;
You have made yourself endure your lost vitality,
And have eliminated my love ever since,
Your love is coarse, your heart is not chilly.

I tell thee, just give ‘em more and more;
For papers and pens do not like us anymore,
And so our being shall mean none else to one,
My love has left me tense all on my own.

I tell thee, just give ‘em all your pulse;
Empty my brown heart from its hard curses,
You fade one night, and glow anew and come again,
You were here at once, but dispersed and loved in vain.

I tell thee, just unleash all your freedom;
Make the crowd love thee t’is time, at random,
For our passages have love meaning no more,
Nor the remembrance that once lived short.

Shall I attempt t’is time, to seize and bind ye?
What is the value of an illusion, when all is masked,
When ‘tis but the savage product of a dream,
When all of mine is renewed pain, and limbs.

Shall I bring my unknown poetry to thee?
Yearning for a bliss so damp and unloved,
But those beside, whose songs bear filthy flattery,
Sought naked by thee, in adultery through the night and day.

Shall I bring my poems to who shan’t read,
Shall I be seen as they console, as they converse.
Shall I be greedy at breast, while easy at heart
Shall I be present in my toil, in my worried verse.

Shall I be a verse to thee myself, and read me,
Shall I be a sacrifice to all glory and again.
Shall I make my whole age belong to you,
Shall I undo my fate, and wish all was true.

Shall I fight at sunset, and come back at dawn,
Shall I see what I have written and done,
Shall I compare us to the morning dew,
I have found no love so fond as you.

But who says you are a child and immortal still,
You are what the long crowd is wanting,
The vanity of what they are doing,
The yule and beer the bold blood feels.

Who says you have been a fond one at all,
Who whispers such thoughts behind the hall,
That they have seen but too rapidly,
With a pride too big, to truly hear and see.

And who says you have been a lover to me,
You have turned against your own immortality,
And your soul, then, shall not retreat to me,
You have left the heavenly sight you could not see.

And who says my poems are all over you,
For you are not a prey to any wondrous sight,
Not a bright poem for a quality night,
Not a sterling soul for the Northern Light.

And who says my poems are not ancient,
For those who hear not through the yelping rain,
For those who lay asleep on every shiny day,
For those with less to writ than to say.

And who says my poems are tolerant,
Who says they shall be nice to such impediments,
Who says they are to writ in thy honour,
Who says they shall forgive, and forget like before.

And who says my poems are those of thine,
Who says you are entwined in my mind,
Who claims you have my artistic heart,
Who writs I’ll die in my narcissistic art.

And who says my poems are for all those,
With clumsy ears and a ruddy face and nose,
Whose intelligence gives birth to no merit,
Whose defense is void of pure delight and wit.

And who says my words are for all these,
Who twitches not at the intuition of my prose,
Who wonder at the sublime virtue of kisses,
Whose pain is born from the lavender and rose.

And who says my subtle words is for such beings,
Who hide at sunset and stretch at the sound of dawn,
Who says mortals are the most stellar of kings,
Who says the possessive rainbow shan’t be gone.

And who loves with the inherent new feelings,
Who goes to sleep by the wrath of art,
Who sees not through his heart’s beating,
Who shall have their ripe hopes torn apart.

And who pains from their selfish illusions,
Who lies to their merit and imagination,
Who molests the notion of salvation,
Who tells deceit and upholds deception.

And who silences his laden soul beneath his lust,
Who scratches it with a chain of sins,
Who curses but the fond forages of love,
Whose guise shall impede his own veins.

And who loves with hate, that hate causes pain,
Who writhes in the joy and scarce delight of friends,
Who hinders reliefs, who exalts tears;
Who weeps evenly, who alters love for fears.

Ah, thee, standing beneath the crescent moon;
Dark in thy chest of white substance,
Impure in thy porcelain light,
Corrupted by the bashful night,

And who said thou could understand;
Thou were menial and rigid and cold,
Thou talked away and danced to the light,
Thou made lavish for me a nightmare.

Thou, who seemest just like granite to me
As hard as its surface could be,
And although it had a clean look,
Thou hath been wronged by thy own sins.

I am a threat to thy aura,
An abnormal cloud and satire;
Like a sickness, a secret oblivion,
Thou dream of me not in red and grey.

I am a fly to thy barren tales;
A trouble to thy singing flute.
But who said she could fake a dance;
By the divine Eolian lute?

And thou, whou seem just like granite to me;
As hard as its surface could be,
And though it had a clean look,
Thou hath been cursed by thy old sins,

Thy hands, made ***** by her touch;
Furtive in the most fatal sense,
And thy charm, handsome but mindless,
Knocked my heart torn, drowned and lifeless,

What if I feed thee to my heart;
Whenst all thou doth is crush it again,
What if I let thee tear its parts;
By the love riddles of thy friends,

What if t'is resolute ode is dead;
Leaving me no more beat and breath,
What if my breath hath no more pause,
But hurts and pains and screams and dies.

I dream not of thy lucid words,
They are not beauty to my prose.
I dream not of thy flavoured verse,
Which stays fictitious to my cause.

I dream not of thy flagrant smile,
That lasts only for a while more.
I dream not of thee as I should,
They are a mirror of falsehood.

I dream not of thy mortal blood,
It likes to lie and fool my heart.
I dream not of thy diseased mind,
I shalt be fine with my crooked tears.

I dream not of thy paradise,
For in there shalt be thou and she;
Laid in the thoughts of thy naked lies,
Only poetry dies away with me.

I have broken another's heart when I should not.
This is the first time I regret loving you;
Know then that I'd loved you from aforetime;
But you never offered even a piece of dust to me.
Instead you tore my mirror and shattered my reflections;
Even in my dreams you have denied yourself to me
And sent me only the whisper of your feeble hands.

The deeper I step, the darker it grows;
And I hath the time to argue not;
Not even to open my frozen mouth;
I do not know what stands in there.

The farther I walk, the colder the breeze;
Even t'is anguish shall dry and freeze;
For I have no more tears to wash it out;
Nor the sight to keep it all awake.

The longer I stride, the moonlight faints;
And I am but alone to pray to the saints;
I have to head back before night fails;
You are yet too far, and 'tis now too late.

You are not here with me, not in my voyage;
Thou who left my love at a young age;
And 'tis unlike I was thy fine one;
I was the ******, the cursed, the worthless to thee.

You are not here to hear me, nor my poem;
You are not here to save my asylum;
And you have shrugged your chest in horror
You, who condemned me for another love.

Like those branches, my heart hath stitches;
As autumnal as t'ey can be, they hurt not;
Not having been cut short nor alone;
Sweeping not t'ose quiet forlorn melodies.

On those branches, where there are holy songs;
Swinging from where they sit together;
The lady angels bow down and laugh;
Just like I used to live and love.

On those leaves, that no longer live;
Is the fresh bloom as 'twas yesterday;
Wreath'd too red on thy cheeks and lips;
Lips that have gone, nor shall kiss me again.

Here I am alone, alone and without thee;
With such tales t'at are long buried;
I am killed by yon trance every day;
'Tis like thou haunt me nigh' and day.

Thy voice rises and dies and rises again;
'Till it surprises me every now and then;
Yet thy long moves are barely here;
Just like the rustles that I hear no more.

I am startled and stupefied and startled again;
I am too alarmed by my own red voice.
I shall sit until dawn fights hard to resume;
But here I'll be, jailed by my own poem.

And who knows what sorrow shall mean;
Whether it means tears, justice, or just memory;
Who knew I'd but be here today and tomorrow;
Because fate is not for mine to grasp, nor to see.

And there is no abundance of moon or light;
But these tiles and floors of snow, somehow;
I'll sleep basked in that cursing cold, tonight;
Without thee nor my candlelight, anyhow.

And there is no abundance of love, in between;
All is blurry yet elegant and unseen;
Those who know not what my heart shall mean;
T'is solitary being, alone 'mid the deadly rain;

Ah, but thou art too polite and nice to be here;
With songs blended far into the crowds;
Its hymns and rhythms made for hot dances;
In the summer of chaotic bliss and faces;

And I, the ordinary poet of the beyond;
Whose words are oft' left crisps and unshaken;
Whose gimmick oft' remain untold;
Never reaching its bashful prelude;

And I, the loathed poet and magician;
Who says I am friended and not alone;
Who says t'is place is but magical to me;
Who says I am guileless and innocent.

And I, the deserted and the weak;
Unlike thy affluent dust and water;
Am just like my nymphic soul within;
Crying silently into the barbaric rain;

And I, the poet, too naive for thy kisses;
Not even ashes nor tea of the sweet sea;
I, the loner, who writes only skinny dead words;
Unborn for thy rustic love and worlds.

I, the cold, the one for the cold and winds;
Who lives not the weight of thy summer breeze;
Nor witnesses the height of hot gravity;
And better be left in t'is drained insanity.

And I shalt but sit here and strive to writ;
Bearing t'ese itchy wrists and breezes;
With my bleeding gloves and apparel;
Waiting for love t'at shan't ever come.

And I shalt but not twitch nor tread back;
For my name is now an all-dead wreck;
Enthralled by some and yet misery to chests;
I shalt seek not to go back and rest.

And I shalt dream here and not come home;
They shalt want me not but have some;
To drink with loud cheeks and wild fervour;
To live and to die, to breathe even in their deaths.

And I'll be lost in my daydream of you;
Though just a lie t'at shall not be true;
I'll wander now until I find the shore;
Ye' unlike thee, I may not be alive any more.

And I'll be lost in the dark of winter;
That I and thee shan't be together;
Unlike said by the handsome tale I saw;
I am dark and dead to thee, from now.

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.

And ask ye why these red tears stream?
Why these damp eyes are wan with weeping?
I had a dream--a lovely dream;
Of him that in her arms is sleeping.

I saw him as 'twas yesterday,
The bloom upon his cheek still beaming;
And round his waist was a golden ray,
And on his brows were purple notes playing.

I saw him as 'twas yesterday,
The smile upon his lips made 'em red;
As though he'd ne'er go away today,
And be naughty still, in his tousled head.

With devil-smile he swept a lyre,
A garland red with roses bound it;
Its strings were knitt'd with lambent fire,
And poems of love printed above it.

I saw him 'mid those spears of light,
Dimmed not by the flight of the night;
Or wouldst the golden sun make him arise,
To wake me from these beautiful lies.

I strove to reach him, and behold,
Those fairy forms of Victorian angels;
And all that rich scent wrapped in blue gold,
Smelled by me from behind the walls!

And he smelled like those one thousand lilies,
Engulfed beneath the fiery daffodil sky;
Entwined in dawn's naive live poesies
Who could breathe not, and were soon t' die.

And I awoke, oh! But to me
Though my waking moon was too hazy;
And to wake up was so dreary,
I envy and hate my own fantasy.

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.

I'll wait for thee by th' red bricks;
I'll wait for thee to cite and speak;
To recite me a poem by th' lake;
To swing by me by th' games of fate;

I'll wait for thee by th' blue moon;
To speak love and fill my heart soon;
Whenst all hath not'ing else but lust;
T'is passion be th' one t'at lasts;

Yet 'till th' blow of my last breath,
T'is love is hate--and life is evil;
'Till all's alive and hath no death;
Thou stay untold and knoweth not to feel;

Thou art th' piece of an old song;
Singing and sobbing all day long;
I am absorbed in thy cold charms;
Within th' light warmth of thy arms;

Thou art a pale piece of poetry;
Sitting and mumbling here with me;
Hearing my heartbeat grow faster;
Thou hath th' heat and cold of summer;

Thou art th' dark line of a poem;
Bursting into my tears and gloom;
Enduring dusk and plain nightfalls;
By th' morning ended it all;

How if I've sought thee all along;
For we hath none to suffer with;
With a loving heart wild and young;
Waning through summer's bland sweet song;

How if I feed thee to my past;
A bleak moment o'r lives should hate;
A moment I have left in haste;
A torture to o'r craving hearts;

How if I feed thee to my chest;
In whose layers thou shalt find rest;
From East to th' end of th' West;
My love is at its very best.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

T'is cold outside, and I am caught in loneliness again;
I am not with you; nor you are with me,
But this lyrical poem is not about my pain;
For I know, you'll never want to be with me.

I cannot hear you like I did before;
I cannot feel you like I did last summer.
I cannot hold the scarf you always wore;
I cannot play the song we used to sing together.

I have a troubled, troubled consciousness;
Remorse has taken me and my happiness;
My verses dither and change and alter again;
I write and giggle and sob, all in pain.

Where is my dear, my venerable darling,
When I'd be satiated by his words;
Where is my love, my flimsy little bird;
When I stand alone in such bald worlds;

Like an old tree jolted by fires and winds;
Like a red rain halted by worried skies;
I speaketh worldlessly to my naked curtains;
When I dream of death and a sweet last breath;

Like a round life wasted by its bare soul;
Who in its death frets once and again;
But in whose flights screams and laments;
The missing bits are not to be found.

I miss you. I miss you right here in my mind; with all the remnants of my strength; all the might I have left in my perilous grace. I am longing for you; I'm so after you; I praise and adore you relentlessly with unspecified reason.. I'm so done without you! Where to find you, my love, in this wordless pursuit at such a fiery night? As long as my kisses remain unreturned, my soul shall only continue to suffer, for in the day that this love must surrender, I shall have nothing more to offer...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Sun replaces storms and dew sweeps cold winds;
Chests stir to life and feet rush to pray;
To the Lord of the worlds and of nights and all days;
That hearts be pure and washed of all sins;

Legs merge and lower among one another;
With a strong admiration that lasts forever;
Heads rhythmically bow and touch the sacred floor;
Pearls of rewards doubling behind the door;

To the Beauty sweeter than solace;
Much prettier than silk, gold and grace;
To the King of Heavens and days and nights;
To the King of miracles and solitudes and lights;

Praises and glory are floated to Him;
Who is more real than any futile sweet dream;
From Whom memories are never to fall apart;
By Whom peace flows among our very hearts;

Winds may blow while their grass remain green;
But all fear still, the watchfulness of the Unseen;
Who knows where our hands have been;
Who witnesses what our words shall mean;

Who watches what tongues want to say;
Who sees how hearts promise and swerve and lie;
Who stays alive all through the night and day;
Who created the earth, the moon, the stars, and the sky;

So fear not the laughter of this world;
Which is too plain and as false as words;
And dwell ever not in its bland rapture;
Which is as bitter and crude as literature;

And I cry again, ever and everlastingly;
Hearing His sweet and thoughtful sanctity;
His Words that are as tight as the rainbow;
His Words that I want to hear still, tomorrow;

And I recall again all those warm phrases;
And of their pretty scarves and natural laces;
But can I only be here, by the window to hear;
Listening with pain, by my own white pool of tears;

While inside flows again those rains of virtues;
That I once liked and ever wished to choose;
The belief to which I longed to vow;
The febrile phrases my heart used to know.

You heart the moon and the guiding star
You tread across the earth and universe.
You forgive all wounds and heal scars
You read me through the bountiful verses.

You wear new masks, all over again
You writ at dusk and writhe in dust;
Your flesh warms up all over you,
Your love is dark, but honest and true.

Your life is but a whole drama and roses
And the actors you love but cannot kiss.
For your love awaits thee in the northern light,
The one who writs and oft’ stirs at night.

Your heart is but a touch of prose
And your rose has the perfume of a story;
When but many have left and got lost
You shall stay still, and wait for me.

Your love is but a touch of poetic gold
That has not the reason not to hold;
Your veins have a frantic beating
Awaiting for their lover’s steps, singing.

You must not cry for what has gone
For what is lost was an impediment;
You feel it too deeply on your own,
That all is handsome in your linen heaven.

You must not pine for what is lost
For misery does not live to linger,
For her heart is too common to your prose
That they better not live forever.

You must not want to feel those tears
They are distant that they shall not hear,
For if they know, they shan’t listen to you
T’is world is never meant for one like you.

You must not hark to the worldly sayings;
Let them madden and be cheated and die,
For a boneless excuse that has been a lie,
When they were truth not, those dying!

You are one childish soul sweet and meek,
A fateful soul I shall swear to withstand;
The one the sun hates in its dying week,
The one the evil ne’er befriends.

You are one gleaming sign of love,
Being that, your smile is all I dream of;
If the world were all that it seems
Then I could have my reason to stay in dreams.

You are the bird in the high garden hall
That keeps its nest and sings by the wall.
You are the song beneath the green valley
Adored and admired by their white lilies.

You are the forest’s eastern spark
That shines in between the western dark.
You are the lovely ecstatic little rose
Who spills rain and delicate water prose.

You are the flesh of the barren May
The fair bride to be crowned a happy day;
You are the cheerful soil of summer nights,
The toil that make green grass bright.

You are the clouds of the iron skies
That lend truth to their painted lies,
You are the kiss within the rugged tales
I have fallen in love with your drowsy spell.

You are the poet and the fantasy
That lie naively as a human to me;
At night atop the barn on the far hill
I can sense how you hear and feel.

You are a silence, you are my poems
You are the words that make me feel home
You welcome me with open arms,
Encircling me in your salubrious charms.

You are a solitude, you are my poetry
I want but my literature here with me;
The words of joy that make me laugh,
The chants of warmth that give me love.

I must not cry at every impediment,
For ‘tis belittling to the universe.
I should cherish my mortal being,
A little tear I should not shed.

I must not be void of sanity,
I must not hear, I must not love.
They must not hear my story,
Their love should be enough.

I hear their thoughts and silenced cries,
I sense their fears and wearied lies.
For love is a battle when ‘tis a wound,
For love bleeds not in its sound.

I avoid with them, but pass with them,
Through a gate of dead morning dews,
I see no sign of a graceful poem,
I see about me nothing new.

What about their tearless sights,
Too distant from the Northern Light,
That ensuing misery is admired,
That a corrupted joy is desired.

What about their endless lies,
With such discordant daylights,
That all beasts are evil no more,
That love is not good, but worse.

What about their idle truth,
The unsaid myths that ring mute,
The unspoken ways that watch,
The false that I should touch.

I must proceed, I must not awake,
But in haste have they made mistakes,
That all other sins are soon enticed,
Growing alight at the harmful nights.

And my lips soon wake with fear,
All innocence sounds and seems weird,
That I speak with the truth of a liar,
That there is no fact in my words.

And my heart soon races with tears,
All justice being put backward,
That all normality is not here,
That I have been torn apart.

Who are they to find but a reward,
When white blankness is not a coward,
And who are they to estimate a bliss,
For love does not demand a kiss.

Who are they to find the stars,
When they have not gazed upright,
Nor are they alive through the night,
To see the ice, the Northern Light.

Who are their souls so belittling,
Their voices neither grasp nor sing,
Who are they to read a butterfly,
Who are they to find grace.

And my pen is not about me,
Nor are my words mine to see,
None is thrilled, not by my verse,
Then how shall I writ, or converse?

And my books are not beside me,
Nor are my pages there to be,
None is intrigued, not by my words,
Then how I shall attract at first?

And my poem sleeps far from me,
Leaving me for the heat and sea,
Leaning on the sun and its rays,
Falling in love with the sick days.

How should I atone for my sins,
How should I deserve to be seen,
That life without thee is no delight,
That ‘tis a breed of injustice.

How should I atone for my foes,
To remove all woes and cursed throes,
How should I turn back my ideal,
How should I see again my fall.

How should I atone for my love,
To live and die and breathe and laugh,
To live my tales by thee alone,
To be the poet and youth of my own.

I see myself swimming in
a thousand thoughts,
but I cannot get to the surface
of people's minds
because their world is too common
and modern
and it hates me.

To the world, creativity is a sin.

I tried not to cry, but still I cried;
I shouted to the full moon, asking where my love was.
I asked the moon to be honest with me;
in its red colour looking bright and marvelous.
Its poetry sounded very funny, and yet
It didn't want to answer my question,
It was too hesitant too look into my eyes,
And said my love was nowhere;
For someone else had taken it somewhere.

And in my dream I did not see you again,
Like I had done the very night before.
I was plunged into a world of ills,
Where all patients but cringed and screamed
At the top of their acrylic voices.
I was painted by my dream as a terror,
A poisonous lilac that all the vibes it had
Ran away in disgust and fear from me.
I had a bad dream, a faint tear, a nightmare.
And when I woke up, you were still not here;
You were not hugging me like you hugged her;
You were not kissing me like you did her;
You were not calming me
And not fantasizing me at all.

And I cried, I cried, and I cried again,
I was befallen by my own happiness and hopes,
And I have no more power and a friend,
In such a world makes me get lost.

I have no more love left in my heart; even if I do, I cannot and shall not want to feel it, nonetheless. I do not wish to love anyone else, either, because what I have learned shows me that loving someone could only lead to heartbreaking. My heart seems dead now, despite its warm beats; for neither love nor hate fills it. It is numb, it is no longer sore in its wounded state. But that is not the reason why I let it be that way. I want it 'dead' because I do not want to ruin it any more, by this ruthless little thing called 'love.' Love equals hatred to me now, love is unholy, love is ungodly; love is not love. There is no real love in this world; all love is ugly, despicable, deceitful. Thus I want to stay away from love. I want to make my fractured heart alive again. I want to keep the wholeness of it safe. I want to have my rights back to it; I want it to shine and smile and wrap me softly like it did before. I want it to live and breathe again; and beat again for myself and myself only, this time. I want nobody--no male in particular--to tear it away once more. It was once destroyed by betrayal and denials, and so I do not want such dire business to come and ruin it all over again. I want to keep my heart sacred. I want to keep it only for God. For Him, my Creator, and for Him only. I do not want anyone else to taint my poet's heart, not any more.