Inside to inner life, enticing lovers to come forward, a landscape richness of images and emotions. Marble statues, raised in her image, paying homage to god-like achievement.
Never to be loosened, folklore mixing in with reality. Weaved poems from casting romance roles, under moonlight and around candlelight. Green glow and owls.
Sleepless night, meeting one’s own dream, when those myths collide with reality to explode over earth, as every word in dogma is instantly forgotten. And it’s too late, she’s burnt in the memory of immortality. It’s a exorcism from humanities sins, hidden demons and no holy water.
History is dull.
As the romantic place in poetry, providing praise. Smile knowing there isn’t anything wrong of forever believing in spellbinding love. For living outside being so, not worth living. Stepping outside the paradox. The commitment to love, processed over a lifetime and built from scratch. No one ever has to wait, taking comfort in poetry, dipped in honey. Perhaps it’s glory, poetic exaggeration, though everyone wants to be saved, perhaps no one really does, though it’s always the other that saves, to be on a pedal steel with roses thrown to the feet is the only price to pay, is one some do turn away from. Cigarette smoke in jazz ballads. Fear not, fear never and the only regret is loss of life of one’s personal history in avoiding thee. Maybe we’re just molded from the same star and just wanted to discover ourselves first. Life happens now and it never waits. For now, in regal imagery, I see in, death is still definite.
A tyrant to one’s heart,
the foundation for humanities poetry,
and when I think of love, it’s your actions is what come
first to my mind’s eye.
As for poetry, will never truly understand or express
deep love that’s experienced.
And worry, I’ll never be able to fulfill musings ways of love.
Despite poetry’s attempt to teach.
A person, that Heaven can’t replace with any Angel.
Perhaps this only a dream.
But I learnt from poetry, it's good
to have feelings and just want to vibe.

It’s a delight to know the fear,
providing a loss of life. With
only the moon that wears
feathers from phoenix. Gold
drippings and arch of eternity.
Rebirth not from water, but of
soul selling to herself, in
innovation and originality. As
the others emulate. Starlight
allure, speaking languages
with humanities musings.
Waking the dead world, dropping
men to their knees as their
boyish behavior is pulled to the
front. Relinquishment of dogma,
as we all enter a new age.
As chanting songs in homage
to her. As no more tears to cry,
to what she avoided in the first
place, is attention from others,
pushing away romantic gestures,
conversing conversations, a
standard practice of life’s narrative.

Her, a silent twilight, alura of lights, glitter outside
from the in. A sublime way, letting go of her own
queenness, surpassing poetry and any narrative
of symphony. Thought ballet tried to replicate.
Belonging only to herself, for herself and none other,
than the chess game of mind, body and soul.
Musical actions, outgrowing sentimentality. Modern art,
portrait paintings, clanker's orchestra. Mystical
in fluid literature, writing such as these, potent poetic
prose. To where she won’t notice, nor even care.
Mother to art. Sister to romance. Regal without effort.
Harmony in thy soul. Because her breathe is harmony
in this world. Where this earth or matrix, perhaps
isn’t as sinful as I thought. (I repose from spells,
there is a belief in love and romance that sparkles
in this world as poetry.)

Cliche beginnings, eye catching glances, images layed over heart, ****** lust. Touching civilization. Constant linage over time. Felt and now posed in forever. Flamed passions, wild hearts, glaring from the eyes.
Heaven smiles. Earth blushes.
No longer to argue with society, protesting against, never. Inclined to give in. Forgetting about the normality of life, where others suffer. Love left to experience as something happens to others is sill and thought dripping poetry, is now one’s own hands. A souls liberty. Dream fulfilling. Intimate moments. Mimicking poems. Glowing engagement between two.
If it’s told in theatre, proposals for immortality.
Shocked and accidental.
No sense of possibly returning.
For they are not who I had expected. Neo. How saving hee, never. Oh how love deems and falls, melting over one, like gold over marble. For I never asked, dreamt of, or even yearned for. Though they are there and I cannot turn away.  
Normal in love.
Different outside the normality of where we both come from.
Whimpering without, like a child
and I roar when she’s around.
Feeling utterly untouchable, brave to be thyself as we experience contentment.
Poetry follows but will never emulate.
(knowledge variable)

Any romantic art, whether it be poems or cinema. It’s an expression
of teases to those who hadn’t never experience. But a slap to your
face for those who had meet that one and fell into the fear of following
through. Now your friends are watching your back and you’re too
near me. Let all poetry now, scorn you with truth, moths eating dreams,
fireflies to taunt. Embers over earth. Haunting methods to be felt in
flowing waves of regret and despair.
For nobody likes the ones in love. Sparking questions of ‘why can’t we
be like that?’ After they gasped in awe. Burning candles. For nobody
likes the ones in live. Only love can ever devalue progressed work
and any else, held to the chest in sentimentality. Hopeless romantics
now a career path in the arts. Teasing humanity with their words.
Smile for me now (couldn’t help noticing your pain).

Blaze a blunt, because they’re all in, finally made it, feeling good, like I wanted. Out to pour honey over the silk, be back before lunch time and call a pusherman. Making ends at the last straw. The wind will now your thoughts, as soon as they leave the tongue.
Voracious mass spreaded in poetry. Produced thyself, for myself, crystallized in memory. Like my emotions had been froze, harsh times in hardships had my heart still and muted. For every word written in hope to explode profound sensations. Burn. Smile at awareness. Heaviness in wisdom, whirlwind of poetic allures.
Infusing in the veins of others. Images of me printed on your memory. Invictus enigma. I stayed closed up, poetry is a selling tool. It’s been a long time. I open up for those who toil in their efforts. Eyes tightly sealed. Staggering in my absurdity. Plucked from obscurity. Where you lived once in the void of life, where they all in strange ways placed value in the most mundane actions, in a place now where reality had collided with mythological events. Turning out folklore.
My entire life has not been in protest of human principles.
Just saw the worth in innovating originality, to go out make something of thyself. Because the life lived without confront it’s destiny and conquering my own personalized fate, was not worth one simple-basic moment.
As for those I’m not apart of. Do not weep now or never. It’s such a waste.  I left to cross over. Rumors spark chatter of death.
(knowledge variable)

Modern times, mystery here and there. Lore and stories.
Spellbinding to my soul. Eyes wide open. Manifestations
over to my hands. One eye and everything that I’ve ever
wanted, within one arm’s reach.
(knowledge variable)