He twirls and whirls with supernatural speed
His usual blue eyes, with smoky black gleam
In the midst of a battle, sword in hand
Master to master, friend to friend

A metal, black, that no-one knows
Owned by one associated with crows
His messenger, his ally, his beast of burden
Caws and calls his silent song of death

A mercenary, bounty hunter, with just cause
To right the wrong and return what lies lost
To defend, apprehend, to defeat the Kursed
A story riddled into my verse

Corroding at the essence of what had been,
leaves wilted scorched by the white.
It was but a far away moment now colliding
upon our onyx reality.

No thought of that which echoed in the distance
a difference to our perspective. but now absorbing
all that was delicate obsidian, eviscerating all
substance now bleached from known existence.

All we were was eroding away, flowers blossomed
but wilted upon the sight above, diluted our shadows
were not as they were. All that was will soon be but a
blank slate no longer the beauty that was obscurity.

May the month of Monsoon
Rain pours all the day
Sun is hidden but this rain feels good

I am laying in my cozy bed
while all my wander thoughts
caressing and harassing to and fro

My thoughts are more likely to stop by
Near an Angel who warms me up
If my world is in a hidden place
Nothing more sweet will ever come close

Crying rain in the month of May
Twenty seven years ago - 15th '89
I have heard an invitation to the Autumn
When my father takes the hand of her bride

Spring - Summer Autumn and this Rain
All made me wander far too away
I am asking nothing from this rain
Mubmbling ' let it be' slow in the way

there's a blank white canvas
because today i decided there needed to be
there's empty space
where i choose
which colors i want
and which ones i don't want
and i am the only one
who controls all of the brush strokes
i can paint you in,
or i can paint you out
i need to create
somewhere nice for myself
take me somewhere nice
where i have decided to be
take me to this place
where i chose my own happy ending

i'm blank
and i cannot find
a more perfect word
to describe
emptiness feels like
a feeling
a suffocating hold over the heart
you are still feeling, but
i am blank
my own words even
are fleeting

I'm the friction between your silk sheets
and the picture you hang on your eyelids
I'm the breath that fogs up your bathroom mirror
and the life that you left behind

I'm all the wonders that you bury
beneath you bed to rust along with
the tired Narnian lions
and Middle Earth'bound hobbits

All your fairy tales are over
and as you descend over her
for the final time
and are close- so close-
You realize

Your fairytale
is coming
to an end

I must spill myself on the road,
There's no such thing as a canvas for me.
No fresh blank board with a blizzard surface
Only tears and dirt stained ridges.

I don't have acrylic paint,
Yellows so bright it awakens the night
Reds so passionate it brings forth lovers.
The paint on the road is but dried up in corners.

There's no painter behind the painted.
No one watching its old and rusted creation.
I'm an art period with no semi-colon.
Rococo, classicism, baroque... they're not me.

People remember the names of long ago,
With curves of dead nature and spirals of pleasure.
Everyone recalls the beautiful old centuries,
Never someone will recall the painting of me.

I am no ship reck in the bottom of the sea,
There are no historians curious for me.
No lost treasure hides beneath the blue tapestry,
Where beauty had lied for centuries.

I am that road you overlook,
Driving on the one-way lane without thought.
There are rats and garbage and broken sidewalks.
I am the painting painted with regret.

I must spill myself on the road,
There's no such thing as a canvas for me.
I'm another crack in the timeline,
Lost in the hypocrisy of centuries.

This is how I feel...
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