Sensibly we talk and nonsense we go
Orthodox are the words uttered
Profane are the verses sang
Deceptive are the eyes buried

They appear pious and they are saints,
I speak sacrilegious and I am vindictive
How the flowers bloom is fate,
How the flowers bloom I hate

When kindled is the vigor
Ignited are these roses,
Of Vehemence we had a feel
Of Abhorrence we had to ****

My own path I have,
My own dreams I latch
A soul wandering at the prairies,
Gored yet numb with your poetries

Amorous is the depth inside making me drown,
Covetous is the realm outside wearing a crown
To which force will my heart listen,
Lost in labyrinth I am and fallen into warren

When left as memories are the stories,
And burnt into ashes are the memories
The sun had consumed the earth I know,
But not the world of artifice we had grow

They say that the magnificence of the planets, the stars and the galaxies
cannot be seen by the naked eye.
But when my eyes met yours, your hands touched mine -
my sight, my senses, were amplified
like the floating Hubble in space -
I begged to differ.

It's all in you,
the galaxies, millions even billions of them, are in no comparison
with you.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

I drank a bottle of blissful yellow paint
Lured myself with the calmness of blue
Drowned myself into a pool of thick red blood

And I found myself, staring at your eyes
Because, love, I realized, it is where my palette lies.

You are more than a masterpiece.

A machine I am
And the salt from your dreary—
Eyes — is my fuel.

My sanity,
I doubt.