At the eve of another summer
I found myself in a Paradox
Longing to painfully suffer
due to a beloved lost vox.

The greatest pain for the greatest joy,
quite the paradoxical alloy.
For a voice to be pandora's box,
fate of the shattered heart boy.

The promised call, refused in past,
For no heart could possibly endure,
is steadily approaching, at long last,
to ellicit a heart-rending overture.

An opera of pouring pain.
Even the sad tears cry in pain,
but everything cries in vain,
for her heart was washed by rain,
and will never be mine again.

The ambrosia out of reach.
Its scent alone is enough,
to relive blissfull memories
and dreams of a future... a bluff.

A world where you're next to me,
but i'm forbidden to hug, kiss
or tell you i love you more than life,
is not my world, but Tartarus itself

In my world it had a simple name:
forgivable human confusion,
led by pressures, human, all the same,
inconsequential to our passion,
once ours, now mine.

Our worlds shan't collide
in any future fate.
Your friendship i must decline,
to be reborn and not desintegrate.

The green hills of my heart,
the blue ocean of my eyes,
the starry sky of my mind,
the nature masterpiece of my soul... Is gone.

All that remains is a heavy chest,
containing Schrondinger's heart,
with a decaying undead hope,
to both reunite and forever stay apart.

Sometimes, in the lively and dense fog of our lives, small inconsistencies appear.
Short moments when the fog dissipates a little, just enough to see a tiny bit through it.
The reality unveiled beyond the fog brings me to humble, mortal tears.
For a brief moment i was able to catch a glimpse of a bigger picture,
OH, but it is not for human eyes to seize.
If they do endure the sight,
they will quickly retreat to a thicker part of the fog,
where it's more cozy, human and sane,
away from the despair of Ephemeros.

In contrast, if the curiosity is too great, one might risk it's humanity by gazing too long into the gaps of the fog, all the while missing the fun and crazy shapes the fog takes or the colours that shine through at different times of day.

Two specks of dust join each other and decide to deconstruct themselves, both giving a part of them to create a third particle of dust, that is conscious about being a bad speck of dust, even knowing that being this tiny grain is utterly meaningless, it was the product of two bits of dust, therefore this meaningless effort should not go to waste... should it? How long has it been...? ... going to waste for...?