now has tiny dancing flames, where stars
go to die. Their final breathe makes them
flicker in the dark, fading, as I take each
breathe, letting out slowly and in easing
pain, where in faith, show my real self to
the outside world. It’s all because I dare
to reach out to the infinity. When everyone
else told me that I couldn’t. But I do not
ponder on humanity's flaws, just wonder
when the rapture is coming.
Perhaps the only secret is to life, we wink
in sync to the evening stars
(dead wrong, when they’re long gone)

- knowledge variable

If the future has no hope, trust me, the
present will not escape any bitterness
that life throws this way. As nothing
that cause the heart no stronger pain
than the mute silence from one’s lover,
that all of life’s hope is rested upon, in
such holy trust. One’s hope and one’s
despair, is rendered with one, no other
time or moment, where one’s destiny
is shown so strongly, than it’s shined
in one’s romantic life.  
(knowledge variable)

When the truth blows, it kills all the liars
in a explosive way, it dents history, as it
should. Left for all future eyes, as it reads
into the past. Potent and poetic, hopefully.

It’s generally the one you let go, that one
is meant for. Perhaps when memories turn
to golden smiles, to what if’s. Do not render
to poetry as compensation, but it’s alright
to write tears of self-resentment in poetry.
Though it’s cliche to start romance in one
glance, but the eyes are in search and
leaning inwards, feeling one’s breathing,
souls wrestles, intertwined in one kiss.
However overused the glance is, the strongest
love always starts somewhere, it’s the same
from the greatest heartbreaks. And poetry
knows who deserves love and heartbreak.
With the romantics chasing the feelings.
As perhaps life is nothing but a dream and
each poems is supposed to ease each pain,
but we write like how we dream.
(knowledge variable)

Laymen, I do not hate you, I just wish
not to be like you, rather die of passion
than boredom, blended with the rest.
I’m in too deep. Thou Shall not steal,
Thou Shall not squeal the secrets, Thou
Shall not ****, rub me the wrong way,
Laymen, I will, Thou Shall not cheat,
Thou Shall not born mystic, one has to
work for it. Civilization will not reach
perfection, until the last philosopher stone
has fallen on the last sinner. Be concerned
of not period of humanity, past, present
or future, always be focused on this current
life, the intensity and rawness of it all.
Laymen, it is fate, I wish not to be like you,
there is no other greater sin to any culture
than ignorance in action and trust me,
and it has not relation to economic poverty
when it comes to war.  
(knowledge variable)

I felt the absence of life in most,
so I turned to poetry for life instead
and felt no regret since. And there
is nothing as beautiful, than the life
I missed out on, as the life I experience
could make me smile, because no other
life could do.

Oh poet, my dream is to witness you
to fall in love, that you’re consumed so
much love, that’s at the point of madness,
and you forget to write another poem.
- knowledge variable

Freedom, the secretive and conclusive gesture,
that life has bread in the either, echoing with it
in the air, perhaps it’s greater than love to the
poets. It is all that above, freedom is, or it does
not exist. There’s a scent to it, as our hands
naturally know how it feels, to every attempt to
grasp upon and hold. Only in moments of death,
perhaps as we let go the life we had just lead,
we can finally experience it, providing better
ecstasy than any illumination. I had always for
something, I could never touch. Poetry cannot
constantly be split into dreams and reality.
For I have no-idea how the soul stays sane,
living in this duality. For me, it’s useless being
alive, if one is not the path of personal revelation,
whether that’s in love of thy soulmate, or just
the transcendence of one’s illumination. But the
saddest thing is, is not whether we can reach it
before death, it’s that those rare people who do,
get frowned upon, be called mad, and turned
away into exile, by the layman's-mundane ignorance.
Finally breathing through the wind, as my body
dives into the bath of Muses below, where I’m
blessed with martyrdom, which is the highest any
human can achieve. It isn’t really true, just because
you witnessed a person die for it. Even though
my life was a discovery of things, worth dying for
like my love for my soulmate.  
(Why be master, when one can be king?)
- Knowledge Variable

The only problem with the self,
that is, there is so many various
ways that the perception works.
Eternity maybe longer than life,
arh and lucidity in the sense of
my Muse, acting as a Higher Power,
suspecting in yearning that isn’t
human. Poetry leaves only passages,
it’s like any other art. Lessons in
symbols. Not in a state of constant
dreaming. Individual fate. My
own future, being a parent - present,
melts in my hands now. I’m in
a constant state of illumination.
(knowledge variable)

The only argument one does well,
it’s with one’s other identities. Fighting
for different causes, it’s all apart of
one giant  fellowship. Maybe by
accident that reality is only inside one’s
mind. I just wanted to go into romance
and nothing else. I’m a poetic peasant.
My inner-world worth more to me,
than another would know, romance
should not be in the realm of any poem
or spilling out of a poet’s tears. All
romance, beauty and love should live
only in the realm of experience.
(knowledge variable)

And perhaps to confuse the Angels, is to
let them know how long people stay in churches.
With the amount that derives from it. Without
a sound, they slide down and it’s so easy, to
forget, that any Angel could provide more than
being an awakening of knowing to be good
enough in the scene of romance. It’s been
one of a kind ride, along the bladed knife.
Where else could I see God, outside stained
images along the walls and in a magnitude
of collected books and dogma. A character
so stretched, it spawns different religious
fountains, that can encourage people, not only
to die, but to ****, or in simple tragic hands,
look what I got, could birth the most tear
dropping acts of humanity. (Cut those ivory
into skinny pieces and feed the poor. They’re
left questioning and saying: ‘I should of run
that way, or maybe this way.’ Those *******
will never know, cause I got away. I guess it’s
close to armageddon, more ******, harming
and joy, don’t you know, you can meet the devil
before death? It’s behind the curtains in plain
sight, the best kept secrets are well protected
and never to be proven. From the land that
never rains, everything they seem to do, cause
drama and you’ll never be right as you’re left
dead wrong, even when you’re long gone.
Dear Lord, bless my mystics in the in penitentiary,
Soldiers of the century.)

Do not weep, though in sweeping
dramatic features, in a concerto
fashion, veiled poetry, do not weep
for me. For I died and not to come
back to this earth, or this life. Nor
I’m I upset at this naturally great
act. I have gone into another Kingdom

So, I’ve stepped beyond the curtains,
seeing blood and wrath, now it’s time
to change my soul, transcendent
features, illumination. Wishing death
upon me, I stared at destiny and now
they wish to take my life away

For the love of poetry exciting thoughts
that a person had fallen so much in love
with another and they could not keep it
to themselves and made an effort to express
in this and for this world. As for anything
else, it’s between the two lovers, creating
memories forever, as much as they do it
for themselves and nothing else.

Under silver moonlight, for the purpose of
romance as the lovers see the stars as only
of windows to Heaven. And when they kiss,
Heaven enters their souls and become not
connected with Heaven, but with each other,
as they make love, they totally become intertwined
and every poet lives in jealous.

Perhaps the use of poetry, is to be used
to heal heartbreak wounds, piercing from
one’s soul. The pain is long and forever
deepening, as this life is too brief for it to
heal. Remember young poet, in times of
bitter loneliness, you’re still attached to this world
and anyone reads your poems, they’re
attached to you and if they cry as a result,
momentarily the loneliness lessens. There
is no greater search, than the one whos
looks for their soulmate and refuses to believe
they live in myth.

Two worlds collide in one single moment
when two give into their love, binded and
powerless to avoid such holy power. Give
a slight laugh, to learning that it could
happen outside Heaven. Unlocking hearts
and speaking it’s language. Outside of
poetry, forgetting the melancholy life in
a loud roar towards to neolife, retreating
that breathe by leaning in for a kiss as
opening gates to the souls to meet and
make love. To live alone, outcast to this
world where the rest are sharing, blind to
real love that poetry had attempt to teach
them, without asking for anything in return.
Where the lovers gestures, emotions,
thoughts and private world, spark such
great works of poetry, that will get made by
active Muses, surely humanity will not ignore,
though I’m sure they will. Real love to find
and to know, is rarer than finding myth in
reality. Behind closed doors of minds in marriage,
sing songs unwillingly, of what’s different
to the veils they dress in.    
(knowledge variable)

’ve always had a great need for greater solitude, like how the lungs needs air, that the heart beats and the poet needs love. It reminds me about myself, allowing myself to sit and feel my own emotions, to listen to my own thoughts, to see where regret and shame brews, take the corrective steps to correct, to see who I feel for, either as a lover or as a friend, allow myself to cry over people I knew that arent no-longer here and to appreciate those who make an effort to say hello to me. Most of it, the frustration with myself or with life, seems to be weakened after my isolating-solitude and something reminds me that it’s no so bad. We all have childlike nature inside, there is one thing stronger than tears that a child can’t hold back, it’s pure joy. At that very point, we cry at meeting our soulmate, it’s not because there’s an inherent sadness in either life. It’s because they’ve turned out far more superior than ourselves, producing beauty that any poet thought that only Angels could produce. And we’ve rendered by our soul to burst in tears, not at our painful past that it lead us to this point or that fact, anything we had worked for, had lost its value. It’s because we disregard our future and finally live in this present with the very person that the Heavens had personally created for us. And finally, to every love song, every poem, to those every smile, finally makes sense for the briefest of time. Than our attention, all of it, fully and stronger intentions than making it to Heaven, is passed onto our lover. The consummation of them, inside of us, won’t allow it. Until someone sees us, for who we really are, despite of own defects and faults, and our path to uplift and fulfill destiny is gained by their attention - is known. We are loved. Smile after crying, smile for me now, pictures of us immortalized in images.

Like others, in the speeching tone, melancholy, that
trembles throughout lands. Moon glow and Sun’s
rays. As masterpieces of any art, were not intended
for this age, period, any culture or the whole spectrum
of civilizations. They had landed here on earth, mere
mistakes. But the imprisonment of thy mind, worse
than living in bitterness, it’s the blasphemy of this life
constantly slapping you. Where you’re never ending
in clarity of mind and conscious, nowhere you go, the
world would an environment equal or greater than
your inner-world. Rise up above art and life. And
commit oneself to death.

Perhaps poets are those going into poetry, because
they’ve meet their soulmate and came up short.
Unable to bear the pain, so, in secret, writing forms,
they’ve spreaded their pain over this earth and just
maybe that had burdened humanity, with poems
articulating actual pure love, we all yearn, articulated
soulmates, from the poets lost love. Trickling devils,
now we all have something to aspire to, in higher
ways of living, forgetting there is life right in front
of eyes that isn’t muted.  
(knowledge variable)

The conversation I only want to witness, is not
between the Devil and God. It’s one between
Van Gogh and Mozart. When I meet my own
creator, I know better than most, I’ll keep my
petty complaints for myself and I shall listen
only. Poet, a fragile creature, yearning love and
actual wisdom, that surpasses them to be a mere
Human. Clumsy hands, that always write the
wrong words, to the wrong poems, forming them
all wrong, where humanity is willing to devote
themselves, to such great works of art. I’ll never
be Rumi. Oh thy Muse, how peaceful would life
be without love. There would be no wars to fight
within myself. Let all poetry be contradiction
within themselves, like all poets inside their
inner-world to their exterior.  
(Knowledge Variable)

I grow tired of hearing, ‘let things be’
or ‘it’s the way things go’. At most, to live
truly and freely, it could not be a fleeting
dream, to when my body sleeps. My dreams
are meant to be touched, like one’s own
soulmate. Poets should not write such things,
nor as tenors should sing songs of heartbreak.
I live here too. Oh Langston, I do not act
just to get through and survive, I wish not to
be a raisin that dries up in the sun. Life, I live
here too, just as much as you do.
(Knowledge Variable)

Oh poetry, oh lover,
perhaps love itself, only exists, when it’s
adored. Something we all dream of, going
beyond of losing reality. Love, a phantom
within our inner-world, creating void, until
it reaches a spark, with the help of wildfire
that shoots pasts our soul, into the external
world. Than the reality, we all grew up and
lived in prior, no-longer becomes real, on
the account, it loses value and meaning.
And only the world that the love created is
real. Life can be a dramatic grandeur scene,
lost in the development of original and intended
fate, by those brave enough to follow, or it’s not.
Our bodies, a canvas, love is the paint.
Perhaps love itself, does not exist, perhaps
it does not. Oh let us find out.
(Knowledge Variable)

A Smart romantic knows, that the heart hardens
when it’s being fed off from fantasies. And the
void isn’t punishment of sins, perhaps it’s directed
to the ignorance of man. It’s agony to feel defective
at all times. In trickling and laughing dust, is where
our measure is, a thousand years to live, when one
meets their lover and immortality is blessed upon
when the two go on, deeper and become illuminated
by their own love. (Who's the killer, me or you?)

A memorable lover gives nostalgia, a melodic shape,
and only if you could forward the images to exterior,
everywhere you walk would turn into songs of love.
And existence itself could benefit from, knowing that
real is still reachable. That craving, the emotional
awakening, even in the mind’s intellect knows, the
memories of this pastime, gesture beyond the heart
of poetry and it’s transcends everything human. A
peculiar largeness to one’s whole essence. This engagement
of one’s own past, like it’s said, that real and pure love
is there, using this present thread of moments, parents
one’s own future. And if that real love that poetry
speaks about in such sinless grace does not exist,
I don’t want to know. Some things are better left unsaid.
Her, provides such a strong faith, to which poetry had
always failed in, that the love of soulmates can provide
is there and in this world, to be honest, I wouldn’t
be able to express it anyway, I’ll be pulled forward to
experience it and has left me with reason and meaning
to be alive. (Doesn’t being burnt, leave such a bitterness
to one’s life, that drips and veils everyone a certain
distrust?)  
- knowledge variable

Lover, the world can be so cruel, throw your
heart to me and I’ll place in my poetry, the
beauty of it, will spread in the same way that
paint does on it’s selected canvas. Only surviving
the hardship can soften any inner-world, drums
beat to the dramatic cello’s, stories for writers,
the arts will pay homage, like those stone
and marble statues rise in your honour.
As you in gracious ways had surpassed in grandeur
The world has no exceptions, beside for lovers
out of poetry and walking on this Earths
surface with purpose, as thy Angels sings.
Because society whose mundane, throws stones,
as the lovers find diamonds and place them
back on life’s shrine. Why should I be afraid to
die? I belong to you.
(Knowledge Variable)

(When in love, every poem will be
the same. Sit back, light a spliff of
romance. I smile only for a woman
who surpasses my entire being. As
for the others, picture me hanging
out the window, light to the middle
finger. I’ve got no love for you.The
mystics dont die, we just multiply.
I'll see you at the crossroads. What
happens at judgement day?)

It will take your heart and consume it,
stealing your breath away, leaning in
to kiss one another, the wait leading
to this moment will be long, the memory
looking back, short and nostalgic. It
will beat you down, revelling all truths.
As we before we die, somehow, the love
will hold our hands and let us fully live.
It won’t be expressed in poetry or in
any other literature. It must be experience.
The love will invent one another, between
two soulmates, furthering more, surpassing
our very essence, our entire being.
Living now, better than our pasts, as it
parents our future. You’ll never live one
moment without the other, the love won’t
allow it. Neither no muse, or no God,
Will permit it.  It simply doesn’t happen, if
it’s true. Few will ever see this love, rare are the
ones that will ever experience this real
love, that all poets are behind in. speaking truth
to conscious reality, revealing always, what
lays bare naked in the subconscious.
If it doesn’t burst your soul into stars,
don’t follow through on them,
in spite of everything at veil-normal,
don’t do it. Unless, they tear that mask of
yours, undress your veiled-persona,
opens your mind - don’t do it. If you never
think about them, hunched over, alone,
not a single thought. It’s not them.
Love is tender, touching holiness, bringing
out something, nearly perfect in you. Do it.
The world has plenty of normal in it.
Love is something, in private worlds, inside
your inner-world, your thoughts, your heart,
your something, an act of revolution. Revolting
against everything in your life. Most of all,
love belongs to everyone, but when two are
in love, love belongs only to them and no-one
else. Despite of everyone else. Love isn’t
something people work towards, work together,
luck of the draw or anything like that. Love
can’t be learnt in poetry, novels, any sentimental
art. It’s more than a act or experience. When
it happens, you burst stronger and brighter
than any known supernova, you’ll know it.
And land in a place that all our muses live in.
You’ll be center of envy from poets, romantics,
as friends and family turn to you and your lover,
‘Why can’t we be like that?’  
(Knowledge Variable)

When thy love speaks the truth, she’s creating
reality around. A place for freedom, where I
can develop into my original character and move
freely in that world. Shattering everything that
I had whispered to myself and trusted to her.
(For all my life, I had been poor. Not only it
provides reason to go deep into addiction,
it also suffocates you while you’re clean. I had to
work in and out of poetry to her glittering eyes
to gaze upon me.)

Silence is the friend of lying, weeping silence
upon deafening ears. Poet, write, writing as
if humanity’s life depends on it, as much as
your own soul. Pull yourself into a frame, not
soley of creative genius, but one knowing
that one day, you’ll spark the mind of the one
who changes the shifting patterns to this turning world.
(Love me, I want to hold you in the morning,
as much as wanting to hold you during the night.)

Poetry, I have a life to live. Let me not
be swallowed in by you poetry, let not
my either, labyrinth, my mystique, or
my veil or parts of my character go in
to your fog poetry. There is more to life
than to lay down and read you poetry.
Regardless how raw or immense, or
how much I could benefit from. I have
a life to live. I just want to live. At
least as I live in solitude, you poetry
eases the pain I feel. I’ll give you that.
I’ll give you that poetry.

The only person I seek to be accepted by,
is thy lover. Until then, I’ll do my best, to
accept myself. Conscious and waking in this
reality, we all contribute to, unconscious of
it or not. The poppy’s break from sealed
cases. Muse, what period of mankind
is this? It feels like almost a crime, to talk
about true love, where everything seems
to be based at aesthetic judgment, in
layman's terms, ‘face-value’. Will I quit?
They’re labelled me a major threat. Can
remind people what society has made
them forget.

Writing poetry isn’t my repertoire muse,
romance is. Long, broad, stretching
Angel dust in deepening substance.
Something like mixing Nostalgia in with
memories, experiences present and
my yearnings to be better than yesterday
is parenting my future.
Romance, an addiction and my obsession.

Poetry, is it fine to view upon
thy lover as Angel at all times?
It’s heightened in tender moments,
where she’ll rub her hand, down
my face. For how many times
poetry, I wrote poems of love,
prayed and wished upon her,
that the muses had no choice
for this uncreated love to come true.
(Now things will never be the same,
oh poetry, is my past leading to
this moment worthless, cause it
is without her or just a path in aches?
But it’s just the way it is.)

Not everyone is made to measure
the infinite, for those who do. Are
generally viewed upon as a paradox.
Mastering freedom, equaling to their
mystical duties, higher than humanity.
Human wealth parallels human desire,
I saw Mozart surpass everything we
know, reaching immortality, passing
human fame. Now I want do it to.

(What madness it is to fit in.
There’s pain, share it with me.)
Live or die, ******* to this body, mind, heart, soul
and my muse has nothing else to do, to render me
intoxicated with the wisdom she brings. It’s all in
time. I am that other. I’ve atoned my past and I’m
awakened, consolation for my future. No-loner
waiting for that afterlife, bless, living it now. For I’ve
meet them, behind the curtains and as for death.
I’ve died already. Smile for me now.

Perhaps a butterfly making love with a flower,
the world’s soul, perfume for the world. Despite
it, I cannot rest properly, my dreams are too full
with life. Not even poetry can ease or calm, it
just enhances.

My thoughts are free, my body is in chains,
freedom in places of danger, bringing down steel
cuffs in lands of peace. Produced a being of
paradoxes, poetics,  unfulfilled romance, philosophy
that isn’t articulated and the dramatics. Venture
into the reality of existence, go with knowing
there’s horror and reasons to smile. Truth will bring
no gold. Coffee, jazz and dreams of love, a poet
already has. What has killed the illusions of this world
and for some that I had, who lives along in this
world, had left me in bitterness, but provide a
sense, I could finally touch destiny. There is
no hope for those, just wanting to fit into
this world. It has been done before and created
injustice, ignorance and inequality
(Knowledge Variable)

Full of life, vibrant and radiant, grew up and grew apart,
to both of our surprises, I took control and went out,
making something of myself, there’s bitter resentment
in your voice, to everytime you speak. Now we barely
keep in touch. Acting like I’ve got be living for the block.
Devil in your grin, Satan in you lies. How come you look
with hateful envy? How come, it’s my fault of what you
did with your life?  Every time I go to embrace, you turn away.
Where were you when I needed love?
(There we both came from the same place, it’s the money
and the struggle got us changing places. People yield to
trends, sins committed, people attempt to repent, but they
recommit to sins, I guess it’s their essence and it's the way
it is, I knew my cousin was on dope, I lived in poverty.
Providing reasons to become a ****** as the poor nature,
Suffocates me while I’m clean and I broke free. Life goes
on. I’m alive again, writing in stride, it’s adrenaline based
motivation, I’m little awakened than most. I just wanted to live.)

(Knowledge Variable)
I can remember when the sun rose for
the first time in my life, it overloaded
my whole being with neolife, along
with neo-thoughts and sensations, I
burst into tears, disregarded my past
and it to the evening stars, like those
little rocks on the road I just walked on,
it has stayed in past, like it should,
dispersed with the supernovas. From
than, some people I saw, afflicted like
me, lived more fuller as the rest, are
seen as the walking dead, as they should
be perceived. The thought of the world,
where everyone’s muse lives, continues
to weigh me down, the act of pursuing
Residency there lightens as every step
Taken. Any act of art that I undertake,
is mere step towards it, like in every
moment I continue to develop my
true and original self, leads me towards
the deepening of my own awakening.
Now by experiencing the present, it
becomes more of a parent to my future.
Pounding heart, breathless scenes of
enchantment, I can only change those
who pay attentions and walk in, with
or without fear.  I can only open up,
like the sun, to whose make effort to
do the same with me. Darker the life,
the brighter it shines, deeper the bitterness,
the closer they becoming a god.

Poetry, I’ll give you my unfulfilled dreams
and yearnings, any part of my past, that
brews resentment. I’ll keep the rest and
I’ll smile.
(Knowledge Variable)

If you never experience real love, you’ve never lived,
never been heartbroken, never attempted to find love.
Poetry created from both lovers and the heartbroken.
Destroying dice, never kills chance, destiny can,
cellos and tenors, emotions in sound, thoughts lay
dormant, till spoken philosophers moan, exiled spirits
spread with velvet and scarlet, a spotless spree of
rough dawns and silver-golden glowing romance nights.
Novelists and drink coffee with cinema, speaking with
French conversations. Returning, making love with
all the farewells. Life itself, a deep sleep for some
and crazy, like wildfire mystics for the rest, who do
more than desire to live life. Rather, I’ll sleep now,
awake for too long, in attempt to outdo my lover.
Piercing blue, heavy on awakening, pressing upon
me, poetic words for poetry and memories now,
for nostalgia in the future, present experience in crazy
contentment, untamed where that's the only way
to experience someone you love.
(Knowledge Variable)

In reading past philosopher's, a concerto conversation
in historic fashion and expressed in poetry. A soul
trembling, mystic produced, words to murmur all through
a moon-lit, silver night and see the sun rise again.
Descent from the mundane, where void is birthed,
watch life expressed in mystical beauty.
(Knowledge Variable)

Lover, while intertwined, breathing mingling,
body to body, stomach touching, naked. We’re
a vaster blaze to the night sky, than any
constellation the cosmos performs for humanity.
Secrets shared in poetry and they forget about
the sun rising everyday. To every moment
we share, the Muses to this world forgets a little
more to complete it. As we awaken a littler
larger, growing towards holy enlightenment
as our love is grand and true. (No-longer afraid
to die - lover, I belong to you. I’ll wait for you,
at that other place, just smile for me now. We’re
exploding into a million stars and poems, just
by breathing as we kiss. Arch of eternity,
humanity remembers us, in mythological fame,
no offence to any lovers, but this world belong
to us. Untouchable.)

A poet becomes, when a poet finds the world
outside, unsatisfactory. Not to inspire that world,
be drawing attention to themselves, to be inspired
or proven wrong. Not admitting it’s true love that
they all want. Children to life. Slaves to reality.
Caged in desirous love. Limited in art creation.
Do not render to poets for anything. Live life.
There is only one of those. (When my face got
cut up, I got told that God don’t like ugly. So
every night, I go to sleep with a pistol in my hand.
And one open, just like the Masons. Don't feed into
the world.)

To my muse, that pulled me out of
a still place, where I was a offspring
of my past, placing me here, as a
parent to my future. Where this
present, converts itself into loving
memories, content at the same time,
anticipate the future, working towards
overloading love to live the experience

There are poets, who sink into
themselves, deep into the infinite,
where their soul once melted over
and emptied. A poet to be kissed,
hugged and gestured to. Blossomed,
intertwined, like tangled vines.
In person, they have nothing to say
but spark so much, in their loud poetry.

Her torch reflecting and piercing eyes, wise
and watching-over forever. From my
vanishing smoky glare, pine, eyes. Do I
dare to go closer? Her beauty scares me,
Aura, dipped, angel-like and majestic.
My soul pushes for a spontaneous
outburst of a romantic daring. Her wisdom,
something admire, even outside poetry.
Thoughts scattered and departed from me,
and it’s too late, she’s burnt in my memory.
I contemplate the future, will it bring me to
tears, to write with my tragic hands poetry
of regret? I spoke up. She moved closer

A self induced hardship - desiring without action,
dreaming ruthless castle-like magnificence. Aiming
towards Heaven.

Serpent in poet’s garden, her in my mind,
demons and angels, wrestle, all wanted
is rebirth in poetry. Still sinful as I write
in graceful poetry. When I romance, I
do it right. Though when I sin in lust,
to spills over onto the Earth’s soil.

Duration of life, metaphors in actions,
linger thought for memory, paradox.
Profusely in search of defined meaning
to one’s own being, refined. Fireflies
and moths. Deepening dejection, truth.
To eat the apple or not, instead of to be.
Changing owls. Awaken in constant
thread in meditation and conscious.
Death is one final act. Take me to that
other place. I’ll only wait for my lover.