When love dies young,
like a rose plucked by a curious
kid's stubby fingers, right after
it bloomed in full sight.

The poet clutches his pen, still,
in a maddening rush, scribbling
half writ songs with no endings...
the fire crackles quietly in a corner,

and even its heat is not enough
to melt the frost which envelops
the air; when words are spewed but
future seems bleak, as sand

in an hourglass slips by, waiting
to be upturned, and yet another
love dies young, while the crowd
watches in sheer indifference.

Sometimes, incredulous at
the way things take turns
at baffling us, and we're caught
by surprise, as life, which
grimaced mischievously before,

miraculously rearranges its
features; a kind hand, though
virtual, extends through the
boundaries of invisible channels,
almost touching...

and there, in those moments,
I struggle to find the right words,
relying instead on my emojis
to convey the rest...

What's real (anymore)
in a near perfect world?

The dampness of the day
overstays its welcome,
amongst snowy smiles which

fail to reach the eyes, while
pretenses are kept and reputations
saved from being tattered.


What's real (anymore)
in a near perfect world?

Closed doors which harbor
sinister beings while cursed,
mangled bodies lay oozing blood,

their stench attracts vultures
in human forms, which feed
upon the innocence lost.

The outlines of the sky curled into a smile,
the wind strummed along with the February sun.

Couples drew nearer to each other,
while love was busy adding up logistics
and dividing equations which made no sense...

equal halves, better halves, soul mates and
(in)significant others, all mashed together in one;

wiping off sweat from its brows,
love smirked.