I’m a riddle in nine syllables,
A building with so many levels,
With two big windows, hiding secrets.
Adequate, presentable outside,
Labyrinthine, ramshackle inside.
Everyone becomes disillusioned.
Who’ll fix this piece of architecture?
Who will tend it, patch it up, love it?
Maybe someday, someone will. Who knows?

I am the mask, satin-smooth,
As fine as gossamer silk.  
I glide like a veil of falling snow
Over cracks, over fissures
Filling every nook and cranny
That mars this blemished world.  
Beneath the gaze of man,
I am an enigma, a subtle glamour.  
I am the rosy hue of the ripest apples,
A painted glance that cuts to the heart.  
I am both light and darkness,
The faint memory of a kiss.
I am a thing of perfection
But only look – never touch!

They cut me down to free
The warmth they saw in me.

I still love you
My love to you has not decreased one drop

Do not be afraid ..
My love is a Sea of drops
However, you're puzzled about two things

The first riddle:
You have given a candle to time
The second riddle:
You have taken a torch light from mine

She feels like a ruined fortress:
shaking, now shattering, now gone astray,
now digging up, creating a dark hole;
deep enough to lock herself away
with her raging riddles' ablaze desire
to reach him with their throbbing hands.

"How can such a lovely thing
be surged with so much pain?"
He murmur softly in her ears,
and all she can hear are words
like poison keeping her blaze at bay.

And then she cries, she cries not tears
but blood streaming down her fence,
blotting with marks of his name—
once a nirvana to her, now a wasteland
crammed with thunderous cries
of her cluttered self letting last words escape,
"I was once a serene citadel,
now just a lovely thing for someone
mastering the art of constructing lies."