Her, a silent twilight, alura of lights, glitter outside
from the in. A sublime way, letting go of her own
queenness, surpassing poetry and any narrative
of symphony. Thought ballet tried to replicate.
Belonging only to herself, for herself and none other,
than the chess game of mind, body and soul.
Musical actions, outgrowing sentimentality. Modern art,
portrait paintings, clanker's orchestra. Mystical
in fluid literature, writing such as these, potent poetic
prose. To where she won’t notice, nor even care.
Mother to art. Sister to romance. Regal without effort.
Harmony in thy soul. Because her breathe is harmony
in this world. Where this earth or matrix, perhaps
isn’t as sinful as I thought. (I repose from spells,
there is a belief in love and romance that sparkles
in this world as poetry.)

Cliche beginnings, eye catching glances, images layed over heart, ****** lust. Touching civilization. Constant linage over time. Felt and now posed in forever. Flamed passions, wild hearts, glaring from the eyes.
Heaven smiles. Earth blushes.
No longer to argue with society, protesting against, never. Inclined to give in. Forgetting about the normality of life, where others suffer. Love left to experience as something happens to others is sill and thought dripping poetry, is now one’s own hands. A souls liberty. Dream fulfilling. Intimate moments. Mimicking poems. Glowing engagement between two.
If it’s told in theatre, proposals for immortality.
Shocked and accidental.
No sense of possibly returning.
For they are not who I had expected. Neo. How saving hee, never. Oh how love deems and falls, melting over one, like gold over marble. For I never asked, dreamt of, or even yearned for. Though they are there and I cannot turn away.  
Normal in love.
Different outside the normality of where we both come from.
Whimpering without, like a child
and I roar when she’s around.
Feeling utterly untouchable, brave to be thyself as we experience contentment.
Poetry follows but will never emulate.
(knowledge variable)

To be in pursuit in my own destiny, to break away
from my dreams. Proclaiming my inner world as
my state. Land walked over. Vagabond. Lusting
for experience. Haunting now. Haunting never.
I’m breaking the narrative of society and made
something of myself. Poetry that I write, is a
different story. Truth be told, its in order to grab
attention from thy lover.
(knowledge variable)

An inward secret figure, lurking in the light, formed by sunbeam
rays, glittering the world with sparkles of gold. Inflating the very
importance on living. Meaning in poems, without words speaking
in melodies speech. Emerging in utter beauty, sourced from one’s
character. Spilling into one’s flesh. Distracted in one’s ambitions.
Building value, that’s all too human. Despite truth attained inside.
The outside flows of filling actions, producing praise in other.s
Personality is a veiling persona, playing the part, a life is one
continuous scene. Devotion, admiration, passions, all tingeringly
human. Though it takes one person, one glance, one conversation,
one interaction by another, in it’s accidental ways, normally one
stops to stutter and flushes inside, boiling redness, learning how
mundane they had lived, pointless it all was, finding another
purpose, unexpectedly from another. No middle way, on the
spectrum of extreme, wanting to **** the other, for being something
others aren’t. Creating love in a world made only for lovers.
Meeting fear for the first time. Understanding poetry without having
reading them. Colours alive. So we rose above, unable to commit
to a life that society had laid out. Never again are we alone in
our own lives, destined to be normal, living on the brink of void.
We create poetry in our own hands, crossing over to the muses
heaven.
(knowledge variable)

Oh poet, always in that stream of mood, a stranger,
in a place that’s overwhelming and never asked a
thought on it’s own design. Given life freely, born
like everyone else. Yet, still in exile over this globe.
A dark yawning. A mundane normality. Without a
lust for anything, going about it’s daily business,
without a name. Do not wonder too close to them.
Stay with poetry. For someone needs to mix
emotions, sensations and thoughts together and
take the time to articulate. For the rest, are too
busy fitting in.
(knowledge variable)

Vanishing yearnings, losing sense of time, provoke a myth,
impending a little apocryphal. The sun rises and it goes. A
breathe that creates shadows, covering mountains, something
that isn’t learnt. Flawed genius. Goats cry. Mystics chant
songs that praise. A faint taunt of rage, before turning to sobs
and whimpers. Gloom in darkness. Sin to be paid. Nothing
to do, but change in shift structures.

Believe in eyesight, believe now, if not, not to worry. Garments
drop from the air, blood replacing rain, this is not to express a
furious despair. When evening is not, muddy and dark waters,
where children swim, a distraction. Adapt not. It will not reward.
Murmur of voices carry in the wind, as the earth prepares to
stop spinning, it’s prays and nothing else. Horror turns to most
resistant to a religious observer.

A collection of suffering and nothing else.  

On the other side, debates, battles, things we cannot invent
in our minds eye, argue over us. Their decision is based on
our actions. This is democracy. A flavour of goodness. Brewed
from unholiness. Tragedies remind us, constantly on death.
Yet. We all die one day. Despite our thoughts, intents and
actions leading towards it. We can’t we die together?

Maybe all our hearts are born broken. The despair
inside, a result from shattered pieces. Yearning is
unbearable, like fully being alive. Soulmates, odes
in poetry.  Knowing one another in dreams. But the
search for, angst making, tear making, soulmates
are meant to dwell in any poetry. You'll be embellishing
in natural beauty, I'll be watching you, writing poems
to pass the time, wishing for one glance.
(knowledge variable)

To place importance on beauty can be argued.
Oh to theromantics, ask them, they’ll reply in
poetics, ‘perhaps their character cannot tame
it all and it drips onto their flesh and if they’re
luck, they’ll imprint earth.’ To which, if you ask
me about the earth, it's soulless, neither siding
with good and evil. It’s up to people to do so.
People give God or the Devil power. A question
to who is at best at enticing. But for me, I shall
have my coffee and be content in love until death.
(knowledge variable)

To smile, while sitting the corner,
alone and crying, it's hard to live,
because when is in love, it's nothing
but grief, a blessing and a burden.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BtS0z4J0UWE

Writing poetry isn’t my repertoire muse,
romance is. Long, broad, stretching
deep Angel dust in deepening substance.
Something like mixing Nostalgia in with
memories, experiences present and
my yearnings to be better than yesterday
is parenting my future.
Romance, an addiction and my obsession
(knowledge variable)