Words find their way.
Hearts speak through fingers.
Reading eyes are mirrored in
Ink systematically spilled in
The shape of sounds
And minds.

A pen resting on the table is a
Flatline.
A blank piece of paper merely
Dead, compressed wood.
Don't deny us your genius.
There is no try in poetry.

We're only two of infinite stars.

Burning with desire,
Lusting after passion.

Caressing in the dark,
we were never a walk in the park.

Hidden and burdened,
a love that is forbidden.

No use in wishing on 11:11's,
flick away those fallen eyelashes.

A love made of tragedy,
imprinted on the stars.
Desire and passion,
ready to start a war.

Two of infinite stars,
part of different constellations,
a love, if that's what this is,
ending in entire damnation.

We're only two of infinite stars.
What made us think
we were meant to be from the start?

We're only two of infinite stars,
existing in a universe that's bound to keep us apart.

Light drunkenly reels into shadow;
Blurs, slurs uneasily;
Slides off the eyeballs:
The segments shatter.

Tree-branches cut arc-light in ragged
Fluttering wet strips.
The cup of the sky-sign is filled too full;
It slushes wine over.

The street-lamps dance a tarentella
And zigzag down the street:
They lift and fly away
In a wind of lights.