where does the poet go,
when everything is right?

where does the poet go,
when there are no words left to write?

If a pen could relay all my thoughts
All those tiny speckles and threads that get often lost
My eye would like to describe the tinest details
And my hand would want to draw all its artistic tales

If my heart could realy what it thinks
All those flutters, its strongest strings
My beats would tell those feelings,to share
And my touch would make the world watch and stare.

I hath walked past the windy breeze,
Into thy land of fading love.
What do I see?
Fairies and endless sky did paint with dove.

Bewildered and hath lost in thy strange land,
I await thee for days and nights.
Reminiscing our story in an open strand.
What do I see?
Hands intertwined, long and quite walks.

Four years has’t hath passed in a blink of an eye,
Bonded with faint whispers and a truthful lie.
An untold chapter shall I recite,
In amid of teen and sorrowful cries.

Wake up love and whisper in mine own ear,
A foreswear yond I yearn to heareth from thy heart.
“I love thee my love and we shall at no time part”.
What do I hear?
Silence did trample by the mourning clouds.

Picking up the internal slack
and bring about an inward tension
that emboldens for one to face the day
and the prospects of oncoming ones.
Where wet cheeks, are visible cues
of flipping calendars, leaf upon leaf:
existing surrenders
and like a sparkled after-rain,
brings a moist crystality
that fills in the cracks
and mends the broken places.

I bathe in endless sips of your love
'till the watery depths of my stomach
gurgle their dissapproval,
leaving me sick.