“I broke with the virtuality yesternight”.

Your hands as numb as the winter of some unreached epoch;
as traumatised as the rays of this moon—
borrowed and leaden.

Diddering by the cold morrows of life,
your soul is already downfallen,
out of the blue,
by this last good-bye.

You are through the endless seasons of fall,
with no spring foreseen,
your spirit at stake;
your fall, an eventual doom.

Your eyes are drowning in the ocean of death,
where even in the best of the boards, you're wrecked.

While, I stand as stiff as mountains,
with the same impoverished gesture of last adieu;
concieted by the delight of pain bequeathed to you.

You are the object of my empirical yet conjectural fortune—
that, I poetise now.

In your heart, broken, lies my dwelling destroyed,
and I would soon find myself mislaid or a doomed grave.

Your are an occult soul
     within your resplendent
     and impeccable anatomy
     that Heaven has bequeathed me.

You have revealed all those
    mysteries of love to me,
    that I was incognisant of.

Now tell me, O Master of love;
    What love shall I veil to you?
    And what love shall I not ask for?

I whirled muckle of
itineraries to reach Eden—
then I found your eyes.

I hearkened thee enunciating,
“Those who oft visit thy swevens in sooth miss thee”.
I can not sweven thine Eden.
I do not sweven—
Thou bequeathed me insomnolence.

I am forever walking upon these streets,
Betwixt the city of dead and the living,
'tween the peaceful hush of graves and sorrowful stillness of multitude.
The eternal silent zephyr of cemetery will erase my footprints,
And the clamouring wind of extant will blow away the tranquility.
But the streets and the cities will remain there—forever.