Finding love is to find unfamiliar beauty, noble and true,
pure in the eyesight, throughout duration before death,
a beauty that demands indulgence and conquers one’s
personal soul, their total being, consumed in every
pocket of essence. Stronger than the Devil. Oh lover,
I’m being torn apart beyond violent sobs in the corner
alone. In genius ways, it's like I’m being applied to evil
for when I’m cursed to be not around you. I vowed to
never write poetry again, if you accepted my hand.
Until then, I’m sure you’ll enjoy master of this world.
As the Devil runs riot and commits himself to his
own death, no longer able to rule earth.

To know truth is disown a loss of life, slowly simmering to a boil, to be free, when we’re all pawns to the marriage that freedom has with reality. To know truth, to be in real freedom and that loss could be morals, values, memories we hold dear to our heart, it could be a loss a friends and family. Things we had worked for, like a career. Sober and seldom, no longer to be enslaved to one’s own dreams and desires, breaking away from earthly suffering. To be a muse is the same to be a sinner, may as well be better, wrapping one’s soul around this world and drop poems veiled over dogma. To live in narrative of society, is be worse than laymen, scorned forever in flaws. Hypocrisy, those who dream the most, often live less and never to know truth, freedom and be mastered by reality. Be weary of false prophets in culture. There is nothing sacred about an individual moral codes. Otherwise, society would have no need for revolutions.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BtS0z4J0UWE

Emotions made tender, but fair, fearing not the outside,
to what is felt inside, to play in eternity, to think in infinity,
be only that a paradox is, nothing else, nothing more, nothing
less, attempt to avoid despair and crying mood. As for you,
Bill, if the world is a stage, than the death penalty only applies
to the casting director. There is greatness outside poems,
romance too, sunburnt smiles and laughing memories.
Though for now, I shall write only about my death, fear, insecurity,
fault and flaws in written poetry. Not for comfort in. Just glittering
drops of silver stars, as for others to benefit from. It is worrying
only to be a paradox, living within immortality.

Delicate poems, flattery in times, the process of forever, devour my soul, the center of my inner-world. Flexible and strengthen in smiles. My love for you, no longer a spectre eyes, imagining ourselves, enticing the romance of poetry, into our breathing actions. Tending to our hearts.
In the yonder future, vast terrains of blank and nothing. Where we’ll absolutely nothing else to do, beside creating love in eternity. And time itself, everything that a memory is. Holy beauty shall know us. Marble statues and songs by tenors, other poems, homage only, echoing around as a famous shadow in any world we leave behind. In truth be told, only each we have only to truly find.
Temper never. Tempt me now lover. I will cave in and be enslaved by volunteer joy. I’m not burnt out. But will become of what you make of me. As now, you conquered immortality. Turning into illumination in the silhouette.
https://www.amazon.com.au/Killing-Philosophy-Reflection-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07F9QVCW4/ref=sr12?ie=UTF8&qid=1531092503&sr=8-2&keywords=darcy+prince

Freedom heated inside, burning in the crying teardrops, cult like chants drawing me in, struggling to master myself, perhaps it’s because of this world.
Limitations not on account of dogma and its religion, society or peers. I’m happy to converse with the devil, and sell my soul.
I can keep secrets, lover, we’ve got to be blood in and blood out. Freedom exists elsewhere and finally I’ve transcendent.
(knowledge variable)

As not in poetry, for when a romantic falls in love and it’s given back, all those wishes in yearning dreams explode at once, fallen over in dripping embers, matching beauty fireflies, symbols in poems. Romantic gestures in labouring hands, repertoires and addiction is apparent. No muse could ever possibly help detox the romantic.
Despite the cliche of meeting in
glances in the eyes and that smile
that doesn’t restrain itself. Not even a supernova could come between, no conversation of a tempting Demon could distract, not even the promise of Heaven by any Angel could tear down their connection.
Changing the ways their pray along with their very essence of existence.
Call it blasphemy if you want, not knowing God’s opinion. Exalting feelings in poetic sentiments. Marble statues raised in homage.
Romantics turned lovers.
Fate is here and never meet until now. Revelation inside and a revolution in a quiet mood. A paradox in this world. Lovers living their destiny as the rest of humanity whimper in conforming ways.

Love, romance, cliches, eye glancing, smiles and giggles. They live outside poetry and romance novels. Lovers exist. Hand holding, moonlight silver glow, that glitters off from objects on earth. Sensations in moods from the emotions hiding in essence. Forming itself in personal illumination.
Tingling from taking notice,
sacred to poets, altered hearts,
going beyond material success,
disregarding a world and it’s
self-made reality, forming a new.
Not sparked from philosophers. No symbols. No global revolution. But a conviction that a soulmate does not belong in poem, nor any other romantic art. Neither in the cosmos or some sort of parallel world. Forgetting dreams. Murdering fears and insecurities.  
Perhaps in embellishing in the romantic arts,
I had snorted magic, rather than man made narcotics.
Salt on rebirth, willing not to give up, on my personal
belief that love exist within this world.
(knowledge variable)