I once met a mademoiselle
weeping cherries and petals on her cheeks.
She beseeches the quiescence
to consign her tears
for the god of the abyss
to kindle flames throughout the surface
of a foolish queen.
She offers her blood to form lines
created from an account
of a region of spacetime
that even light cannot escape from it.
Darling, enough provoking a poetess
to put you in silence
through commanding her self-created gorgons
and make you your statue of travesty
and forged artistry.

These are enough to shatter one's domain,
if and only if that poet will claim
the revelation of a monster
beneath the original creator
of a ******* world
through the inks exuded by the great gutsy spider.
That is how a poet bespeaks
the reused and reclaimed epistles
of the mythical raging Dragonite goddess.

'
            darling, you are not part of similes,
            for you are incomparable.
            you are the abstract art itself—
            fragmented yet abysmally beautiful.

clouded night #2


    i no longer
    feel the warmth
    you once kissed
    on my shoulder.

                                each morning
                                seems to be colder;
                                each eventide
                                i get weaker.

     you no longer
     excite these butterflies
     in my beings;
     they now found their demise.

                      you, who were once fond
                      of my paradise-like garden,
                      drowned me of your pouring rain
                      and left me in disdain.

      i, who think of ever been loved
      by your enticing eyes,
      was never been appreciated—
      for i was just this wildflower
      who cannot bloom flagrance.

'
              I once lost my home,
              Then I lost another one;
              This time, it was you.

She jumps through the whisper
of the wind
To harvest their sweet blood, to
ammend
The loathsome world, and to ascend
In the world with no sheen—a fiend.

Cursed by the painters, and earthlings
For debacles are what she brings.
She lifts herself through the
mutterings
Even when she's shattered in her
beings.

She, who sheens no light at fight,
Has been mistaken as benighted.
She carries not the death of a dead;
She's an art who's known the shadow
of a knight.

I'm too tired not to give up.
I even told myself what should I have:
Space—so that I can breathe,
And peace, for I haven't tasted it.

They told me to sleep,
But I always found myself to weep.
It's terrifying yet so serene;
I was swayed by my friends, demon.

It's not the time at 3 AM
When they happen to appear;
I've been always with them
To ease where I suffer.

Even demons can be friends, too.
They saved me from crying over you.
They were there to embrace me
And put me in a poetic agony.

for the first time,
i didn't write a prose about you;
on how i savoured
your genuine “I love you”
with a tender kiss on my cheeks.
i neither bled myriads of poetry
compiled with the string of our promises
embedded in each page,
nor composed songs
through the daily and nightly stars
we have beheld by the ocean.

it felt different yet peaceful.
i was not bothered if you would or not love it—
there were no monsters whispering me.
there has no river formed within my soul,
and only the music of my own serene falls
told me to sleep and don't bother—
for deep inside my heart knew
that even if i made you an ocean of music boxes,
wrote you mountains of my written fondness,
and produced you millions of songs,
you wouldn't remember
today's the day you promised me
an eternal devotion—a life with no sorrow.