(Composed at Clevedon, Somersetshire)

My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is
To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o’ergrown
With white-flower’d Jasmin, and the broad-leav’d Myrtle,
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,
Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve
Serenely brilliant (such should Wisdom be)
Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents
******’d from yon bean-field! and the world so hushed!
The stilly murmur of the distant Sea
Tells us of silence.
                             And that simplest Lute,
Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark!
How by the desultory breeze caress’d,
Like some coy maid  half yielding to her lover,
It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs
Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now, its strings
Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes
Over delicious surges sink and rise,
Such a soft floating witchery of sound
As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve
Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,
Where Melodies round honey-dripping flowers,
Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,
Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untam’d wing!
O! the one Life within us and abroad,
Which meets all motion and becomes its soul,
A light in sound, a sound-like power in light,
Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every where—
Methinks, it should have been impossible
Not to love all things in a world so fill’d;
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air
Is Music slumbering on her instrument.

   And thus, my Love! as on the midway *****
Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon,
Whilst through my half-clos’d eye-lids I behold
The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main.
And tranquil muse upon tranquillity;
Full many a thought uncall’d and undetain’d,
And many idle flitting phantasies,
Traverse my indolent and passive brain,
As wild and various as the random gales
That swell and flutter on this subject Lute!
   And what if all of animated nature
Be but organic Harps diversely fram’d,
That tremble into thought, as o’er them sweeps
Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,
At once the Soul of each, and God of all?

   But thy more serious eye a mild reproof
Darts, O belovéd Woman! nor such thoughts
Dim and unhallow’d dost thou not reject,
And biddest me walk humbly with my God.
Meek Daughter in the family of Christ!
Well hast thou said and holily disprais’d
These shapings of the unregenerate mind;
Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break
On vain Philosophy’s aye-babbling spring.
For never guiltless may I speak of him,
The Incomprehensible! save when with awe
I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels;
Who with his saving mercies healéd me,
A sinful and most miserable man,
Wilder’d and dark, and gave me to possess
Peace, and this Cot, and thee, heart-honour’d Maid!

I promise this shall be the last poem of thee I've written of thee. And thus I have dedicated all the love I have for thee into this; in the hope that my heart has none of it left after writing the poem.

I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood;
Its taint of darkness dripping down like blood-red hearth.
A breeze of morning moves, that we love, has gone;
For a musk of the skies at dusk must have come down.

Come into the garden, my love, and play around with me;
For a bed of love daffodils is on high;
For a set of faint lights is now there to catch;
One breed of lights that we used to play with.
Bring my that green glass of paint, and draw by me,
While I rub thy dark hair on my lap, with my bronze fingertips.

Run around here, Immortal, and give me thy handsome hand;
Thou art the speed and pace I need here to stay;
Ah, I am not detached from t'is world, so long as I have you;
I am charmed, even in the darkest abyss of yon superficiality.
Thou art the fragrance of happiness found in decay;
Strength in the most diminished, and yet distinguished ecstasy;
A fable t'at becometh real in a flight of seconds;
A temptation no maiden heart canst afford to dismiss.
And look at me, now and then and all over again,
I wanteth to look pretty in my ruffle brown skirt,
Just like in my midnight gown on a flowery wedding night,
One t'at we shalt have above the sun, out of everyone else's jealous sight.

Let's dream t'at this delight shall ne'er wear out, and leave to us t'is nuptial potion;
I hath ideas for us and the most sensible of worldly notions;
Naughty as water ripples and the broadening green plantations;
I knoweth now where we canst go and hide our insightful destinations.
Thou wert always running in thy magical shoes,
And t'eir worlds of visions and phantom-like phantasies,
Like woeful but wise extraterritorial dimensions,
A forest of spells and love curses we never knoweth.
But worry not, my dear, for I shall hold thee in both portals,
I'll keep thee safe by my side, I'll keep thee immortal,
So that we are ne'er to be apart, in such a bright love like pearls,
And the petals of roses t'at ne'er swerve again from our fingertips.
We were always inhabited by our little jokes, and moved by an unseen hand at game,
T'at everything was too tranquil even for being a game as itself its nature,
And the whole little wood we were perched on was one world
Of fun shivers, wonders, and plunder and prey,
Oft' at midnight hours we looked at each other so kindly and peacefully,
With eyes mastered by love and tough loveliness,
Thou looked but wholesomely splendid in thy own questioning minds,
And thy brown hair t'at was turned about by solitary winds.
Ah, Immortal! Immortal, Immortal, my visionary love, my darling bird.
And yet, the night knew then, of our tricks and who we were, funny little liars—
Little liars t'at had but a tender love outta' time and space,
And such a gleaming love for one another,
We whispered, and hinted, and chuckled, with an aroma of love about us,
However we'd braved it out, we felt about it glad and not sorry;
We humans of a naughty, devilish, notorious, but sophisticated breed!

Come into the garden, Immortal, for the night bat now hath flown;
The one thou fear, my love, hath left us alone.
And forgive me for my rigid clauses to them;
For I want only to writ' of thee, my darling bud.
The planet of love seem't be on high,
Beginning to pick away its fruitful colours,
And make itself look petrified and stultified,
Like one from abroad, flown in as foreign woodbine spices.
Ah, as though t'is temporal world is not murky enough for us both,
That our translucent breaths are those who survive;
Who remain rustic in this unmerited ordinary world.

Come again, my love, my impeccable darling,
Let's witness what the sonnet's yet to sing;
All we need t' do is pick up a lil' wooden chair;
And breathe the swampy midnight air before we sit.
Here is my poetry, and I'th written it for thee,
Long like the satin seas, and red ribbons made of clouds,
I needst not say it but thou read still, my heart out loud.
Ah, Immortal, the golden gift thrown at one clean snowy night!
And t'ese hidden memories now shine out back again,
For the drifts of the earth we ne'er knoweth, indeed,
And thus who knoweth the ways of the world,
And the surreptitious moves its soil's done,
From morning to night, from one day to another?
Ah, who knoweth 'em all but the Almighty?
Our Almighty, our very Almighty;
t'at breathed into our souls such loving love,
And made for us t'is decent planet, many suns, and one fair earth.
Ah, Immortal, and thou art the son of literature He had to me,
A joy t'at my hands, as He told, outta rejoice,
A glory t'at my faith should find.
Ah, Immortal, thou art sweet, sweet, and too sweet!
Thy sweetness is but an avarice, one bold austerity to me;
Scenic in its grace—a graceful grace t'at is far too restless and undying!
Undying, unweakening, but strengthening, t'at it'll ne'er die!
Ah, for thy sweetness, Immortal, hardly leaveth me a choice;
But to move and fall softly again and again for thee like before,
And thy honey-coloured skin and charms t'at I adore,
Not his, who knows or feels any of me not;
Not him, who is neither courtly not kind;
Not there, who understands not how to write,
to read, nor even to sing.

All night hath the roses heard songs from thy Eolian lute;
And my unveiled violin, piano, and bassoon;
All shrieking and collating in one strange space.
But hear thou, my love, of my shrilling little voice?
An unheard, abashed voice that keeps calling your name;
Your coloured name, that smells like trust
In its euphoric aura and ecstatic plays.
Where art but thou, my Immortal;
That was so close and definitive to my heart.
Where art but our strings, and guitar cords;
That used to rock up our beneficent loveliness?
That kept our hearts in tune, when desperately falling in love,
Ah, I do not want to leave thee still in thy weird dance,
I want to keep thy heart beating with mine and stay in tune;
I want to run with thee into a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the playful lily, 'There is none but one
With whom my curious heart is to be gay.
When will he be free to catch up with me?
I see him day and night and in dreams of my poetry.'
And half to the rising day, low on the sand
And loud on the stone our passion too shall rise;
Keep us cheerful and our heartbeats warm.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those
For one that shall ne'er be thine?
'But mine, but mine,' I swore gaily to the rose,
'For ever and ever, mine. Just mine.'

And the soul of our fragrant rose sings into my blood,
That Immortal and his lover shall ne'er be apart.
He'll wait for her at night, in one bloodless Sofia;
She'll wait for him 'till such stars fall asleep.
He makes her blessed even in her dreams,
That all the red roses and lilies stay awake to watch their joy.

Immortal and Estefannia, the happiest ones along those summer days;
Are a threat to those soul frayed and vitriolic;
Too stellar to them romantic and idyllic;
Proud and sturdy in their ascetic life.
The best of love of the world's missing beat;
Daintier than any of this summer's bitter heat.
How fate tests their love we shall ne'er know,
but their love stretches as distantly as it can.

Ah, Immortal, tells Estefannia I shall make thee flattered
In sleep, in peace, in conscience, and in hate;
I shall make for us joy though our stories may be late.
Thy eyes are brown, my love, one shade the world's never owned
And thus thy love is valid and new in itself, ne'er worn.

And I shall hear when thy lips wan with despair, I'll be there;
I'll stand there with my basket, a gift from one faraway;
But with a love neither placid nor drained;
Villainous as t'is world is, what a broken wordling;
Like a wailing starling, torn in its calls and frothy desires.
T'ere is no more signal for us towards t'is despaired world;
I shall take thee yet, through the curtains of such speculations;
For 'tis only thy pride t'at lives, and not one soul of thine lies;
And should thou remain alive, my love shall ne'er hibernate,
But sit and trust firmly in its wakeful sleep, grasping thee,
Grasping thee, my love, 'till exhaust allows me no more words,
'Till my own poetry disobeys me like a cloud of putrefied shadows,
Ah, but still, remaining a gross soulless apparition I may be,
With no apparatus trembling 'round beside me,
Wouldst I still saunter myself forwards,
And greet thee in t'at peaceful vineyard;
Play to thee a lullaby and witness thy dreams,
Rocking thee softly against thy own stardoms,
'Till rivers are awake again and alert t'eir inane streams.
O Immortal, it is for better and fairness t'at I love thee,
Ah, but which love is sweeter than mine, or stronger than ours?

For I trust t'at my love is hungrier t'an that of her yonder,
Ah, and t'an t'at loyalty and patriarchy of our sullen armies,
More striking than a ****** dame's pictorial tyrannies,
One too sweet-scented for a hidden mercenary,
I have heard, I know not whence, t'at it but happened to thee;
Thou wert away, thou wert not under my umbrella, beneath me!
Where is Immortal now, for I need to save him again;
My husband in nature, my lover and immortal darling and best friend!

For t'is world is but a holocaust for the believing;
T'ere is, within which, not one pyramid of truth,
For 'tis a place of happy misery, and too miserable happiness.
T'ere is no place like our little Sofia, t'at once we dreamed of;
Filled with rainwater by its armed forces of Bul-ga-ri-ya;
I shall wait for thee there, by the triple roundabouts,
I shall wait for thee before I pray, and seek help from Our Lord;
I hath written for Him warm praises and delicate triplets of words.
Immortal the delight of my life, the dignity of my love;
Immortal the ringing joy of my ears, the gallant sight of my eyes;
Immortal my darling, of whom I write and for whom I sing.
Immortal like the leaves of the suburbs, t'at turn red and shyly bloom,
One that smells like mangoes and two pieces of orange blossoms.
Ah, Immortal, with his sweet red-mouth when eating dangled grapes,
Immortal the beloved of my father, the moon-faced, merriest son of all!

Where is he now? My dreams are bad. He may bring me a curse.
No, there is a fatter game on the moors, perhaps I ought to look for 'im t'ere.
The devil, I am afraid, hath stolen him again away,
I hath seen him not for a time as long as this day's.
Immortal, I want thy bountiful smile, and see thee not ill;
Immortal, tell me t'at thou long for and love me still.

Ah, along those happy days, and fabulous morning thrills,
My heart leapt whenever it caught thy voice,
And thy sanguine embrace when such came near;
Days were but too advanced, I know, and men were tied to t'eir own minds;
But thou kept me calm, with such majestic love and lil' poems in thy hands,
For t'is world is yet too adamant in t'eir pursuit,
Yet I needed thee, and thou came along.
Long had I sighed for a calm: God may grant it to me at last!
Ah, Immortal, a naughty lil' breach of t'is world, and its affairs;
A lil' cuddle t'at laughed and darted merrily all through the night.
Would t'ere be sorrow for me, for what I was feeling?
I thought I sensed only love and none like hate,
For it all tasted sweet and fierce like neverending fate,
A fate t'at we both accepted in one force,
A fate too astounding from our courageous Lord.
I thought thou wert mine, and thou shalt always be mine!
And t'is swirling sensation, when I looked at thee,
Full of teary happiness and chaotic delights,
I did want not t' think of its possible ends,
Ah, violent as Shakespeare might've assumed,
But I wanted to relish and bury myself in it
For such memories of thou had desired.
Immortal, Immortal, and now thou art gone;
But when all t'is world does is to go flexibly round,
Where'th thou think our missing beats can be found?

Warm and clear-cut face, why thou came so cruelly meek;
A cute lil' wonder to my sight—and for my lungs
To breathe stupidly for now and again.
Thou, handsome lad, hath broken all slumbers
In which all is but vague and foul and folly,
Pale with the golden beam with one dead eyelash
Knifed by the contours on one's cheeks.
And t'ere is also, about, the remnants of one's blood,
Dried and unmoving in t'eir death, but too lifelike at the same time,
Smelling ***** like the air rifles t'at just brought 'em all to death.
Death, ah, living t'is life without thee is like death;
All is clueless, breathless and sightless,
All is burning me strangely and from within,
Luminous, gemlike, dreamlike, deathlike, half the night long,
Growing and fading and growing and fading like an edgeless song,
But all too disobeys me, and disappears again as morning arrives,
Mocking me again while showing off its cloud wives.
I am trapped again now, in t'is wonderless dream of thee;
Which is more buoyant and febrile, unfortunately, than death itself,
One darker than even a tragic tear of one thousand years;
Like a heartbreaking scream or shipwrecking roar,
I am walking in a wintry stream all by myself,
And where is my Immortal—for he is not by my side,
He doth not witness the emerging of such sunshine—ah! It is t'ere today, quite early,
One t'at sets t'is darkening gloom all away, and thus we are all born free,
Free, virtually, both our hands and slithering eyes,
But still thou art not 'ere with me to witness t'is joy,
Thou who hath gone and withered like a pale blow of smoke.
Ah, Immortal, but may I hold t'ese rainy memories of thee still;
For t'ey all scorn and spurn as though I am ill;
I who loveth thee sincerely 'till the very end of time,
I who loveth thee with all the clear and vague powers
with which my very soul hath been endowed,
I who loveth thee like mad, I who loveth thee purely without hate;
I who virginly loveth thee like I doth my own fascinated fate.

Lay again, my love, on my longing lap,
I'll sing to thee one favourite lullaby,
And a basket of cherries t'at we picked nearby,
We shall enjoy t'is merriment before I let you sleep.
I shall let you sleep on my lap—a pair of skins t'at love you,
Love you as much as my other skin doth,
A heartbeat and pulse t'at breathe together
And want thee t'at madly, now and forever.

I found thee perfectly beautiful, my Immortal;
Sometimes thy eyes were downcast,
Spiritual in some ways,
And 'twas like thou wert thinking, my love;
Thinking of the upsurging stars above—and t'eir ******* secrets, beneath.
Ah, Immortal, even the vilest idleness cannot be against my love for thee;
My sparkling stars, and the affirmation traced along my heart is about thee;
All about thee, until t'ere is but none left of me,
Thou art the juice of my soul—far too ripe for someone else's heart!
And one, thou art more delicate than the crescent moon we hath tonight;
More shimmery than its ***** and rays of twilight,
Ah, Immortal, how the heavens hath descended thee onto me;
Thou, my love, art the last life and love of my thorough entity.

And t'is poetry shall be thy last enchanting lullaby,
I hope thou'lt sing it when midnight's swollen and sore,
Hurting thee to the pipes of thy very core,
But let's forget not t'at we once knitted awesome stories,
A chain of moments t'at lasts forever, ever, and ever again.
Ah, Immortal, we are back in the afternoon now,
We must though 'tis bluntly hard to say goodbye,
Of which hearts are unsure, but yet must lie,
I shall cry out my last beating love for thee,
But thou dwelleth in what I see, and thus ne'er leave me,
Like a fallen star t'at wants to rise but ne'er doth,
Thou art still the leaf my autumn tree hath sought;
And thou art the shine to my balmy rootless night;
Thou art the apparition t'at appeareth and teasest me after nightfall.

I'll wait for thee again in slippery Sofia,
And my love shall re-unite again with its winds;
Its walls, its havens, its barns like a spellbound purgatory;
For if I am bound to thee, in love and hate and rage and agony;
I'll write thee poems 'till even the universe is asleep.
I'll be cold like thy saluted Bul-ga-ri-ya;
I'll hold thee with 'till the last drops of my sanity;
Ah, Immortal, and in yon high-walled garden I still watch thee
pass like an authorial star;
Thou art as graceful as my own kind-hearted light;
For sorrow cannot even seize thee, my leading star!

Say love not when I meet thee again one day;
For t'ere is no more a desire to learn or admire,
I shall carry my knigh

You are somewhere but you're hidden there;
You are with me in my every step.
I cannot see you yet I feel;
I cannot sense you yet I hear.

You are the shade no-one can catch;
You are the force they cannot make.
You are behind their pale shadows;
The one they're too tired to know.

You are in every flavour t'at I taste;
You live in every drop t'at I drink.
You breathe in every move I make;
You stay with me and ne'er fall apart.

You are the leaf of my autumn shade;
The emeralds of my summer gem.
The orchids of my cold jade stones;
The tulips of my skin and bones.

You are for whom I feel feeble;
You are for whom I have felt hurt.
You are for whom I endure pains;
You are for whom I hate.

But in your presence t'ere's no hate;
For with you there, then love is just love;
Love and hate are like dust and water;
They are separate, and not to be together;

And in your presence t'ere's no fear;
For tears turn into sweet poems t'at I hear;
And t'ose bleak midnight dreams shalt end;
Whenst in your arms, my very best friend.

And you are told once more and again;
By my untouched love and laughters;
From my untold hands and right words;
From the eyes of insane poetry.

And you are there, all over again;
You make things right whenst they do not;
You are in the cold tales I make;
You saw my first love bloom and grow.

You are in my words and prayers;
In the dreams t'at live forever.
You are the strength t'at makes me write;
You are in me all through the day and night.

You are my blood and my sacrifice;
You are my truth, honesty, and lies;
You are my moon, stars, and my hectic skies;
Your soul is mine and shalt ne'er die.

You are the hate and filth t'at I say;
The happiness t'at comes in my way;
You are on my mind night and day;
You are my poem in April and May.

You are my eggplant and cherry tree;
My green lime and sweet strawberry.
My purple lavender and rose;
My morning dew and midnight gloss.

You are the green moors I walk on;
The curved path I always stride on.
That my heart beats when I am beside you;
With a love genuine and passion so true.

You are the sun by my clouded grass;
The light t'at soften hearts' anger;
The love behind one's gritted teeth;
The truth behind deformed false mirth.

You are my ginkgo tree and peach;
The shine among the filth and foul.
My savour sea and fragrant beach;
Cure for the darkness of my soul.

You are my summer and fall tales;
My exact said and written words.
The blood and flesh of my red cells;
The light and promise of my worlds.

You are in my skin and my mind;
You need just love to make me blind.
You are in my ears and my hair;
I feel your presence everywhere.

You are the miracles that I see;
The poetry God carries with me.
The dramas I sing of and write;
The true love that makes things sound right.

You are the one lie that sounds true;
The ******* ****** heart desires.
The essence of my breath and *******;
The frank lust of mine in the West.

You are the thirst my heart falls for;
You are the rain that soaks it wet.
You are the fertile grass it grows;
The autumnal tears that it sheds.

You are the kite that soars up high;
And I shalt be your protective shield.
And whenst you fall with your knee wounded,
My poem's the very drop that makes it heal.

And it speaks of you with sanity;
And misses you with high verity.
And with such warmth t'at is still mine;
It longs to keep you in the heart and mind.

It's thus the immortal in you;
T'at makes it sees with clarity.
T'at it loves you eternally;
T'at it seeks you again and again.

T'at it wants you all over again;
T'at it wants you for no clean reason.
T'at it wants you now and once more;
T'at it wants you like never before.

T'at it loves you like it loves itself;
T'at it loves you with no falsehood.
T'at it loves you like it loves life;
T'at it loves you and shall die for you.

Ah, Immortal, whatfore art thou doing t'is dark afternoon?
My heart is alone in abrupt silence;
And it wants to disturb thee again;
It wants to run after and play with you.

Ah, Immortal, but doth thou tread some-times, on our fav'rite green path?
The one smelling like musk and red berries;
The one thou took to the most;
On which thou called me whenst thou got lost.

Ah, Immortal, and I ran fast like a blind nymphet;
For I was afraid of finding thee not;
Ah, I was in a ruffle skirt and with my poetry book;
Thou said I's pretty after one brief look.

Ah, Immortal, and we crafted one dusk ode together;
And t'at dusk grew more beautiful altogether;
With a soul as handsome as thine by my side;
Brightened by the streets' thrilling fluorescent light.

Ah, Immortal, and so I've written another ode today;
T'at maketh me remember everything without delay;
All joy t'at we had t'at night, on t'at lil' path;
A portrait of once live, but now vanished worlds.

Ah, Immortal, and such an ode maketh me smile again;
It feels like thou art here, my lover and best friend;
And the only lover I shalt ever run for;
The only man for whom my heart beats fast.

Ah, Immortal, and nothing is sweeter t'an t'is green ode;
A piece of innocent poem t'at thou shalt like;
Just like the ones thou always read;
By my side, with thy head laid by my orange lap.

Ah, Immortal, and nothing is more honest than my own poems;
For it thinks absurd not, of what is absurd;
Like t'is immortal passion it feels for thee;
Ah, for thy soul t'at too is immortal.

Ah, Immortal, but now that I've written this poem;
I shalt retreat to a peaceful rest;
I've laid about what's within my chest;
I'm ready for a sleep's endless virtual doom.

Ah, Immortal, and you wilt say in my oblivion;
T'at I have reached my destination;
The very place where there's no thee;
The desolate ice with thee gone.

Ah, Immortal, and you wilt sit in my unconscience;
Keep me asleep in my confusion;
T'at I escape, and escape not from my guilt;
T'is endless guilt of loving thee.

Ah, Immortal, to whom I still love, and love again;
Whom t'is very heart still adores;
For whom my prayers still breathe;
And for whom my tears still flow.

Ah, Immortal, and you wilt dream in my limbo;
Of a dream t'at leaves me conscious;
T'at there's no more love between I and thou;
A love t'at once made our hearts luminous.

Ah, Immortal, and you wilt rock me back and forth;
'Till I but wake again to this world;
And the horrid sands of Yorkshire;
Where I smellest none but dire loneliness.

Ah, Immortal, but dream of me—make me unaware;
And let t'is love for thee step forward;
Sending me back my triumph;
Shoving me up with virility.

Ah, Immortal, let such a bashful moon distract me;
But turn me not about my long sleep;
And with its horns slaughter my love;
That I shalt wake up loved and unloved.

Ah, Immortal, let the grim grimace slander me;
Let t'is love for thee hinder me;
But ****** not my love for thee;
And the longing for thee to be by my side.

Ah, Immortal, and stay with me but in my words;
T'at I am able to tackle the worlds;
To **** its failed virtues and vice;
Its cruel pride and fatal conventions;

Ah, Immortal, thou canst feed me through my bare poems;
And attend more of my illusions;
Take to my imaginations;
Breathe through the words and circles I draw.

Ah, Immortal, thou canst witness my weird footsteps;
Sleep on my imaginary lap,
And leave thy heart to me by one side,
T'at I canst but rub and play with it again.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave to me your heartbeat;
And I wilt adorn it with warm heat;
That like you are, it shalt stay immortal;
Like a love poem I'll craft in fall.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave me thy love to me;
T'at I shalt kiss and cheer it every day;
For it has more than what I have to say;
For it speaks to me with proud sanctity.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave thy hours to me;
T'at I canst write you a good poem;
A poem t'at breathes through thy chest and hands;
T'at thou canst feel my presence again.

Ah, Immortal, and thou outta' leave thy blood to me;
T'at I canst shield, I canst protect it;
T'at I shalt act like its owner,
With a thousand smiles and promises.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave thy flesh to me;
T'at I canst heal and empower it;
T'at I canst cast spells on its wounds;
T'at it shan't dwell rott'n forever.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst leave thy doom to me;
T'at I can retrieve your old laugh;
Although I'm young and I am not her;
I'll love you again and again, more than ever.

Ah, Immortal, and thou canst be mortal to me;
But I shalt still call you my immortal;
Like I once did when we were young;
With the blossoms of love in our hearts.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my promise is true;
I'll shed my blood and flesh for you;
From such shalt flow fresh spring water;
T'at shalt heal thy cracked wounds and lungs.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my love's not a lie;
For if thou rot, then I too shalt die;
For my gripped breath too shalt be broken;
For my vain heart too shalt die hurt.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see thou art my heartbeat;
Thou art part of me and my wit;
For t'ere's no poem but one about you;
For t'ere's no dream but of our first love.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see thou art my thousand skies;
For t'ere's no love but by your side;
And no words written but for thee;
Thou art the voice of my clarity.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see thou art my life;
Thou art inside me as thou wished;
Thou art a breath t'at withers not;
Thou art a thought t'at leaves me not.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see I shalt not wander;
My love for thee is clear and again;
And one intact, and whole, and untorn;
And one civil, and pure, and unburnt;
Thou art my light, my cold fire and warm ice.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see t'at my love is chaste;
For whenst betrayed, it betrays not;
For it cuts not our story short;
For it stays with thee still, in blood and flesh;
For it thinks of you yet, in its wake and rest.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my love is genuine;
For it shoulders guilt on its own;
A guilt t'at comes from loving thee;
For loving you is what makes it live.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my love lives forever;
For thy remembrance gives it breath;
And thy memory frays its hate;
You are the love t'at's ne'er too late.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see thou'rt my perfection;
Thou attend my poetic arts and visions;
Thou art the precision it makes;
The decision it firms hard life on.

Ah, Immortal, and it screams for you by its walls;
And calls your name again and again;
T'at it keeps you in a heartbeat;
T'at it shalt seek you in its every sense.

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see my love is not hate;
For it knows not what hate is itself;
Like it knows not hatred on its own;
For it knows only bland virtues.

Ah, Immortal, so thou wilt see my passion is true;
T'at this etched love is not a disease;
T'at my love shalt hatch again and again;
Give birth to frank newborn poems and thoughts.

Ah, Immortal, and so being alone tortures me;
It renders me dead and my sanity;
Like an empty chair in its solitude;
I sing to myself, and no Eolian lute;

Ah, Immortal, and thou wilt see by my virile sense;
T'at I longeth for thee again and again;
T'at thou'rt the thought I verily ponder;
T'at thou'rt the only love I embrace.

Ah, Immortal, and I'll embrace thee again and again;
No matter how long, nor how many times;
My insane guilt is in loving thee not;
And knowing not how to tell of thy love.

Ah, Immortal, so I shalt proceed but to love thee;
And keep thee alive in my heart and mind;
And keep thee breathing in my story;
A story t'at, I hope, comes back alive one day.

Ah, Immortal, and thou see my nonsense is true;
Though full of holes and discolours;
Telling words is to me obligatory;
For it keeps my love in order.

Ah, Immortal, and t'ese diffused hues are but thine;
Just like my whole journal of tales;
T'at I shalt recall with virtues;
Because 'tis t'ere—t'at promise of mine.

Ah, Immortal, so thou'rt my artistic vision;
My endemic paints and phrases;
My arts' reposes and relapses;
My chanted spells all over the place.

Ah, Immortal, I craft thy poems with precision;
T'at all is unique in their nature and order;
T'at it preserves love and enigmas;
And so it preserves for you, just what you love.

Ah, Immortal, and I tell my tales with perfection;
T'at thou become my whole saturations;
Thou owneth the major gold'n utopias;
And preserve still, t'ese hovering dystopias!

Ah, Immortal, and I've seen in thee such myopic senses,
T'at what is iconic seems atomic,
T'at what is static seems dynamic,
Ah, but all seem such—in thee!

Ah, Immortal, I've too seen in thee such pictures;
Pictorial and ethereal in such a sense;
But malevolently, and fervently true;
Ah, Immortal, thou art my powerful hero!

Ah, Immortal, thou art the magic of my art;
The very clay of earth I step on;
The very suit of life I wear on;
The immortal mind among those mortal!

Ah, Immortal, thou art the soil of my being;
The very breath that I leave awake;
The primary cause I think of;
My multitude of secret reasons!

Ah, Immortal, and I want but' make thee—make thee mine;
We canst drink together and feast;
On t'is love and artistic gleams;
Of  joyed literary and poetic pleasures!

Ah, Immortal, and our young souls shall ne'er decay;
We hath more than t'is world shall say;
We own even more in our poetry;
We own every part of immortality!

Aye, Immortal, and thou wilt see my virtues are true;
I lied not to thee and about our love;
For our love is what art canst portray;
Whilst art itself is my pal and friend!

Aye, Immortal, and thou wilt witness my plain truth;
For t'ere's no mirrored truth than thine;
And even the truth of wan reality;
The reality of joy, tears, and gloom.

Aye, Immortal, and thus thou wilt admit 'tis mine;
Thy very heart and eternal conscience;
Thy cordial mind and vast concerns;
Aye, such are all—all mine, my darling dear!

Aye, Immortal, and thus thou wilt confess such's mine;
Thy very mind and ordinary senses;
And too thy literary and recreational thoughts;
Ah, and thy visions too are mine, my gorgeous dear!

Aye, Immortal, so such is a tale of my love;
T'at brews and boils just because of thee;
T'at loves and hates within thy spheres;
T'at cries and mourns whenst thou art gone!

Aye, Immortal, and thou hath seen what true love's like;
Just like the one I hath for thee;
And I want thee more like I want autumn;
I adore thee more like I do winter!

Aye, Immortal, how canst I find true love then;
Whenst all is blurry and clear not;
With thee gone and my poetry cut short;
I shalt but dream not of marriage!

Aye, Immortal, for such wedded bliss is with thine;
The king of my heart, *******, and mind;
The fairytale I read again and again;
The one old song I keep'n singing thru!

Aye, Immortal, and I longeth for thee just like t'at;
My love hides behind every labyrinth;
Where'n t'ere are green and red and gray clouds;
Where'n poetry is recited out loud!

Ah, Immortal, and thou'th seen t'ere's no-one but thou;
Thou'rt the simplistic art I seek;
The one I'm with whenst strong and weak;
The dream I hath, every day of the week!

Ah, Immortal, and so t'is naughty ode is genuine;
For 'tis mere' thy heart it longeth to win;
T'at it ever boasts proudly of;
T'at it ever wants to get, and again!

Ah, Immortal, and so t'ere's no heart but t'at' thine;
To be entwined with t'at of mine;
To be accounted down the line;
The one I speak of, and I hide behind!

Ah, Immortal, and thus t'ese phrases are but true;
For t'ere's no hero nor villain like you;
Who knows much 'bout truth and untruth;
Who sang perfectly 'bout our own youth.

Ah, Immortal, and thus t'is pleasure is all thine;
Physical and mental and of all designs;
For thou owneth my whole love labyrinth;
And all the tasty scents in its maze.

Ah, Immortal, and thus all t'is poetry is thine;
Just like my severed soul and breath;
For without thee, all t'ese dreams are but of death;
A dream of grief, t'at I shan't find rest;

And Immortal, thus t'is longing is thine;
For thou only canst amend such dreams;
And brings to it candlelight rainbows;
Just like the promise of my true love.

Ah, Immortal, and thou shalt see my plain love is true;
For it fails just anyone but you;
And thus I want thee here with me;
I want thee still, like ever before.

And thy innocence-ah!
Thy innocence, querida, is like a sheet of eternal rain,
and piece of childish art whom my soul adores.
But thy hair! Ah, that tangled black mass of hair-
warm and tidy just like the cloak thou wear-
pure and flirtatious like a young teddy bear.
Meanwhile thy cheeks-oh, thy pink cheeks,
ripe and playful like the forbidden fruit,
poisonous like the Eolian lute,
and as dangerous as a romantic flute.

There is not much of me now, my Northern Light;
I hath been too torn to tell of my deeds,
I am a broken soul now, emerging from an invisible pit;
I hope the sun shall clear though, that I can but delight in belated rain again.
Rain, on thy forested land, that I hath begun to long to taste;
Coming to me like a five-year-old nymph: a succulent playmate,
Shadowing me but in cheerful grins and tireless haste,
What funny terms t’is little creature makes sense of!
Ah, a little one that brightens and salutes my days,
With lyrical giggles often stunning the entire forests of glee around me—
And taking my breaths away in dozens of waves of fierce smoke
That I often pause my breaths, feeling privilege and triumphant
Amidst its innocent odors, smudged with green hues and damp visions.
I feel comfortable then, as my pulse speeds and moans with delight
Spilling onto us from the brave storm above, as I always do.
Tasting rain, I shall twitch and sway around again with laughter, wisdom, and patience
That were undeniably stolen from me; leaving me in a deafening whine of tears.

They but told I did not belong, I was foreign, and so were my streaks of song;
My justice was but not their equal, I was a liar, I was wrong.
I was too humble to notice, I was too unarmed.
I was too innocent to be their companion—improvident and reckless beings!
No delicacy flashes across their eyes, neither do sympathy or softness.
All I could see was scorching hate and heat, shimmering in a blinding, officious smirk.
I was ample and blused oft’ with shyness—how come they came and stole my tranquil peace!
How ignominious and disgraced the whole nation is, who believes
that our own skin shall save us, unmerited and soulless!
How immature, timid, and vile; imbeciles that inherit only rainbows of sarcasm.
And what told they of my poetry, in such recursive envy and hate;
With disgust they said to me; ‘tis not my beloved, nor my fate.
They claimed I lived one life—and three souls too late, that I understood what life meant not;
They thought all was but a wealth of infamy around me, and I was rife with unseen disease.
I was a creature not to fall in love with, I was a disgrace;
I was ungodly, a shoddy strand of leaf to be killed unborn.
They figured I smelt like the withered summer weather;
Not a fit for their chilly smokeless air!

The air there smelt fondly like their absence of love;
And though it was silent, they were silent not,
It was a joy for them to ****, and to see my blood spill,
They said yet I knew not how to taste and feel.
It was as if I could not feel my own blood,
Nor that I could locate my gut’s instincts.
And what thought they of my ****** story;
For my presence was a nightmarish joke to all,
And I was a meaningless and too joyous of a little bud,
A small lavender which poorly knows its enemies and their fetal tongues,
That roses can sting and steal one or two of its crescent seeds!
Ah, and I was that degraded bland-smelling little bloom,
The mindless bloom t’ be plucked in their spring garden—harvested before my time;
That I shall cry and weep my blood out of me, in burning pain,
Destructing all my jutting illusions once again, without knowing why,
And finding my fierce heart, the next second, lying still!
That I think of my Immortal no more, and his face accusably so white and lean
For he has been forgetful of the love he once sustained;
His love, dimmed by the greed around his whole figure
Unsupported by the angered nature about him—which he barely sees.
Hungry for flesh, he is a snake of untold regret and hate;
Powdered with deadly lies only, in his season of love.
Bathed in austerity, and in his own madness running;
Running into the nowhere of my dreams, and dies finally, as I wake from my sleep.
I saw no compassion in his eyes, on those last old days, and after I left,
All that was dead not I deep buried,
I oft’ dream of him burning and rotting his own scattered life,
Melting his own flesh into a rogue wave of sins,
Questioning his divinity with rage that he himself be ragged before he knows it.
And so unseeingly he curses and is consumed by his own karma,
Gathering his own bulleted skins and fleshes by a knife,
But in doing so betraying his own domain of conscience,
Depriving him of ample wan pleasure, tumbling himself vehemently into death.
Scorching death that feeds but from our departing shades of life,
And shrieks in agony when no ferocious air growls at midnight.
Ah, at my dismantled nights in England but I once gave thought of thee;
Thou wert there in my perpetual mind, but not so inquisitive as my English journey was.
O, Northern Light, I was but all shivers upon their first mention of thee!
And so there was I, unknown to the English world but heard fairly of thy name;
That I, at times, thought of the Northern Light, aside from my streams of cries and desperation,
And the noble autumn on its land, when in my fluorescent night slumbers,
I’d love to dally on top of fall’s rebellious moors—and ah!
I can see my love, flapped with his native pride, storm down the maroon roads.
I can see his wait for me, encapped by forty feet of snow on a mountaintop,
ready for my warming fingertips and embrace whenever he thinks of me.
Ah! Though there is sun not on thy lofty linen land, my Northern Light;
I am grinning with joyous tears in sight of thy snowy night,
My dreams have finally drawn me to thy visible lines,
And soon, I shall have to renounce my weary sunshine.
I want to break free, enormous with youth and vibrancy;
With affluent rhymes and delightful vibes that come in time.
Poetry, for it has become one of my salient features;
A concise concoction of my soul, that I love in laugh and hate.
My daydreaming has not been too bad, for I have seen the fun once more;
I was too selfish to open my eyes and see its truth.

Come to me, my Northern Light, and shall I have to perish later along with age
into blue nothingness, I shall not die inside out;
For I know thou shalt come to help my toil
And relieve it of grease and oil;
filling my light up before it turns out.
I, who hath been consumed and decried within two sad springs;
I, who was made to survive an agitation and pain
Only by a jug of comforting cold,
Hath now left my past with a single shrug;
And so I hath dreamed of bouncing back into thy arms,
Thy arms that are too cold at first—to my fragile feet
And swim into thy hands that shall all but know me to well;
Blame me not for the fateful pairs of stories of mine, to tell.

And who are they anyway, to enjoy poetry whenst they see not?
They, whose shadow is to fall into death within the first three days—
But acknowledge the slim presence of death not, among us.
They, whose ******* glisten with envy, and a displeased countenance;
Haunting every guileless soul, dancing over their dismantled beings
Although they bear no trace of hate towards their very eyes.
All I see of ‘em is a beast, that encaps and murders decisively within a short breath;
None of them is eager to touch the deep,
Nor to be kind and set their hateful souls alight,
They are a boastful ally of the devil, far in their forest’s central gloom,
A hell by the deadly babbling brooks, sending water into every undying leaf
That all shall die within the unstable touch of their hands.
They are a bunch of strange apparitions that mock every treasured sight;
A rough incubus, waiting for every foreign man’s headlong fall,
They live only to scorn, ****** and fight,
Penetrating every fortune’s secrets, poignantly tearing their kind walls.

Not seldom that I began to wonder, in all my recursive roamings;
I wanted to see and listen to thee, ah, what a warming sound of thy Eolian lute there was!
All was in vast vain, for I was conceited to hear of my own vision;
Nor proceed my learnings, I was stupidly void of hearings, and rich with shortcomings!
My conscience was too thin, that I wrote when I heard not—and drew
when I saw not, ah, I was unable to hear thee, my love!
For everything I could see was but, in my red dreams, thy roads and their unspoken lines;
Telling me that I was dreaming and all wouldst be fine.
I failed to see though thou wert but very, very kind!
All was a parade around me and ah, yet I could see not,
Its loudly thumping winds but made me blind,
Squinting into the gust, all but myself I could not identify;
My whole soul was absorbed by its minutiae of unbearable pain.
Belligerent and poisonous, the circle was bitter as dread;
Sordid in life, uncivilised and mortified in death.
Aye, how I struggled hard to break free myself, from those violent thorns!
Finally all was clear, and I saw the vital path to light; ah, my Northern Light!
Now I can see again, I am grateful for having not capitulated to my desires.
My poisoned desires, that once retained me;
I am thankful that I hath wriggled free.
Ah, Northern Light, it seems that thou hast so much to tell;
I do not know, yet, how it all shall begin.
I shall dwell on thy grounds so well;
the grounds so beneficent and keen in the first place.
I have not heard of thy sweet voice;
I have known but thy cherry-red stories.
Stories as original as my love;
Willingly given to thee, should thou lift my heart away
and within one saturated breath, amaze and steal which from me.
Stories with red kisses plastered over its blushing pages;
Stories with a shy tint of love; that love of ours that demands recognition.
Stories with hugs and passion that are yet still unborn;
waiting for the frozen night to become known.
Oh, we all should seek the tremor our loving hands hath caused;
And a newly replenished joy, yet, that they hath so lovingly unleashed.
A new, formal joy, that delights both in giving and returning.
My Northern Light, I may love thee and seek delight within thee only;
The fire of thee has consumed the living of me violently,
and I have begun to see my other living side,
cheerful and jubilant may I be, on my front days.

Come to me, my Northern Light, lure me into thy sacred idle night;
When the time of our fate washes ashore, and all the wrongs shall turn right,
And all the fires grow into rain, multiplied by the benevolent immortal knight,
Who shalt fly as King of the Skies, whilst burning out the prejudiced sunlight.

Come to me, my Northern Dawn, moisten me with thy Victorian dew;
Draw me closer to thy sonatas, a realised romance written by bare hands
Bringing another vigorous pleasure to our reluctant bliss
And removing the worries of our juvenile present, marking it as the new Truth.

Come to me, my Northern Dusk, flirt with me like thou didst not with one;
Wish our hearts luck, and fight so our triumph be won,
Thou shalt **** hate with thy sword of victorious words,
Satisfactory to our chests, infallible to the sniggering worlds.

Come to me, my Northern Lamp, tempt me into the army of curling winds;
Rub my shoulders again the beguiling sweet rains, charm me away,
Far in the dark I shall be generous to thee, calming like wine,
I wouldst love to fall into the sky by thy wings again.

Come to me, my Northern Sky, envelop me in thy starlet dawn and blanket;
I want to embrace thy northern grass and tulips, and paint some rainbows,
To read some lullaby beneath the benign sky, and its amulets,
To write some poetic words, and sing them today and tomorrow.

Come to me, my Northern Sea, may thou enjoyest thy grounds’ cold clay;
That my wondrous script shall touch and place upon it a play,
Announcing my ragged arrival on the harmonious soil,
Adjusting myself to the convenient steep hills.

Come to me, my Northern Song, may thou be blessed without and in the unknown;
May thou remember the words of my late vow, o my attractive love,
May I in abundance love thee more, after my formative alone,
May this love grow strong, undeniable, and tough.

Come to me, my Northern Sun, bewitch me once more and entrap my mind;
That thou give birth but to a revitalised summer, young and free,
That this immortal joy shall last, like the oblivious moon,
Held hostage by thy beauty, whose half thou hath shared onto my soul.

Come to me, my Northern Rain, make me rejoice in the swirling autumns;
When the greens turn red and all shall die and wake again,
That we shall remain friends until tomorrow and delight,
Delight, that comes to us when we are united fellows.

Come to me, my Northern Grass, be dry and wet and tickle with pleasure and again;
Fulfill my heart with lithe atonement, for my graceful sins,
And by thee, I shall neither be dangerous nor unchaste,
I shall be a ******; my moonlit quest is just about to begin.

Come to me, my Northern Guide, heal my wounds and lingering past scars;
Scars that are immortal and once tormented my dreams,
I hath forgiven them with my tender cares,
Releasing them back prettily, into their domestic jubilees.

Come to me, my Northern Moon, in the merit of haste and run;
Nibbling thy water lilies as thou pass, and flying through the floating grass,
Thou shalt find me within the cheeks of Jakarta, in my cornered walk,
Moving around with unease, void of any candlelight spark.

Come to me, my Northern Star, thou art as warm as thou art cold;
My reason to keep on longing, and hold on to thy unmolested warmth,
That the cruel Coventry can thaw me no more;
Neither shall its herons fly over my untouched shore.

Come to me, my Northern Soul, so that I can be free;
Let me not be engulfed by the breathless dawn, and twilight,
Slide me free from the strain of tropical grief and sunlight,
I want to feel cold once more, all through the day and night.

Come to me, my Northern Tale, and hear me over the shrieking winds;
Let me steer my journey to thy mortal land, unite us as we have been;
Live inside me and feed my blood, make me known and beguiling;
Scoop me into thy arms, picture me asleep and welcoming.

Come to me, my Northern Poem, make me hear what thou couldst promise;
Make me twitch with delight, and shout pleasure within thy hands,
And sign that very night as my time of rebirth;
Pleasant and pure, free from the past sins and filth.

Come to me, my Northern Love, make my ****** soul glow green again;
Find thy way to me by my marked boughs of love,
My journey and love hath but not ended yet,
Thou shalt breed and unite with me—in our timeless breath.

I ask the stars, but they're weeping
I beg the moon, but he's sleeping
It's only me who's still writing
In my head my words are giggling

There are hundreds of beauty
But I'm only longing for thee
My heart yearns for him no longer
'Cos thou art my truest lover

If thou could be here for one night
Until the day is again bright
My innocent soul, mirth, and sky
As though there would be no more cry

If only thou'd be here with me
And dance 'till spring flash's into view
Lost in the prudent morning dew
And the holy song of the bee

If only there's a second chance
Where I could be more than thy friend
Let me dream in thy pristine charms
Let me be embraced in thy arms

At this very night I but pray
That thou would come to me one day
Perhaps in that summer of May
When bushes bloom and flowers stay

Thy gaze my festive solitude
Thy kiss blesses my dear prelude
Thy promises my windblown flute;
Thy love'th my Eolian lute.

I never meant to fall

but sunrise greased your chassis.
The crest and fall of your jaw—

the blade and bend of it,
mudslide contouring of it—

dropped me ribless at your feet.

O promising land, crisp field  
of flesh, whose fireflies

steered my eyes in the darkness—
your land, where my eyes had strayed—

scaled over eolian caves, the slick
basins of your clavicle, onto
the hexa hillocks clustered
like honeycomb chambers
on your abdomen.

I never meant to fall,

but the cursive lines of you,
I might have trod with loose eyes—

even now, there is a voice
drawing them to strike
at the aquifer beneath your waistline,

voice of vined thirst,
of torso and tug—
with them, I struck and drowned

A sweet, chirping grey jungle tree;
Stirring up bloodied doses within me,
I hath been abducted by morose darkness;
And its fetal, yet obnoxious messes,
For t'is flowered cave smelling just like death!
And to me, death is more like an obsession
In a glaze this phony, and dripping wet
Cold that I hath met about, in person.
One that hath fascinated me; with wronged tears
A single soul is not yet there to hear;
And lurking pools of fears, all blended
Into the versatile skin of the unfriended
Moon, being the beige universe, and evil—
Although he knows not how I should feel.

I, had been enslaved by the worst sun;
And tied to the post of unwanted salvation.
I, not being the privilege of Life now;
I shall go tonight, and not return tomorrow.
I had enough love, but with no love to be,
I shall not halt to see this side of me.
And hark! By the solitary lights of the moon;
The Earth was once my saluted destination;
But who could fight for a savage battle
In an attempt to experience rebirth,
Born with no contempt for the world;
But with Remorse bludgeoned, and hurt,
As though I had committed but treason;
And living was just to hold a vain reason.

For such reasons would be censured venom;
To them, who raved not at my longest poems,
And my guilt’s blood would be their songs,
They had committed justice, and no wrong;
Which a dour soul could adore at a lonely night,
Whilst being mute towards the shifting trees,
Torture and denial were the nail of Sunlight,
Waking me up to the enchantment of ragged bliss.
Had I, another day, woken up to another peril;
I acknowledged my embedded fate as an Evil,
To recite the spells that had infuriated me,
An indolent vice that had but been meant to be.
An insult, that such straggled **** may hate;
But so, forgiveness is far a threat too late.

Such fortuities, I hath not cornered to embrace;
And I shall not be back to sing conned waste,
And by being gratuitous and to *******,
I want to be the handsome rebellion to my fate;
Had I found myself trapped on the defunct floors;
I could not escape marked death at Midnight's door,
And at that sick moment I had been flawed,
Frightened, slackened to my rawest flesh,
By the metal edge of a cut sword, and then;
I was but Death at the rotten night, my friend!
Such fiends, such rage—were far in their summer bliss,
And yet I but grew as a faint shadow in peace;
I watched their flaked nostrils from inside my tomb,
My tomb, and its scraped walls—my quiet home,
I could not breathe now, nor bend towards a kiss;
I was the soul the Earth had forgot, had missed;

I, roused again now as a darling apparition;
I wear a black mask and utter repetitions,
No soul shall want to collapse in my steps—and bolt!
I hath entrapped many daydreaming in sloth,
Those with looser complacency, and breath
In their nostrils lives such straggly wrath;
And in such hair so ricocheted and unkempt,
How canst one but find a stranded scarf, a lamp?
With the odour of blood I can taste, and yet
Makes my hungered mouth groaning wet,
I hath drunk from too many souls, and I
That shan’t live any more, nor shall I die;
Ah! Now I shall ****, and begin with the dirt—
Cleansing such Earth off of malignant worlds!

What a disgrace, a scraggly—yet resilient disgrace!
A bend in the road had I been, and was I mean
To the world but sought not to know me?
And at times of need, their race but leaned to me;
And their fair promises, and royals, had not been true—
Unlike the verity of the justice I had found, and knew.
Unlike my bosoms, that had faced too much sorrow,
These ghastly sighs and temptations shall know now;
I hath found the world to lay my head silently,
With no love to be, and cut my love reverently;
That the stars should watch us meanly, but sure
They would not be a stale aura to my picture.
But to die, to cease demurely without a certain name
Shall be one that feels not my pool of shame;
And t’is crime is no exception, o my lover—
I am exempt now, from the insolent love, forever!

What an imbecile, that we embraced to softly!
What a butterfly that cannot fly in me;
Not a life that holds my chest, nor my blossom
Not a purity that holds clear my poem, o thee!
An ink on the page, but yet ‘tis my story
That I want freedom to writ my fierce destiny.
What a blurred visage to my vision such is,
What a menacing world to want a kneeling kiss!
With no love to see, and with no called name,
They hath no trifling tales nor misspelled shame;
That I had perhaps been too morally confused,
That Death was ethereal, but coldly infused;
Ah, thou, so to thee Death is no exception—
Having not thought of my hurt, my inflammation!

For a living fate can be unassuming, and uncertain;
For humans can die, and be nauseous;
For such lives are a demerit; and for a friend;
For a destiny that can be true, but tedious.
From a love that I am already free,
From a love so ubiquitous; and in unison,
I am obliged to no merits, nor tragic beauty;
I shall seek and give no compassion, nor reason.
And in a vain attempt had I hastily tried;
And in a vain triumph had I sullenly dried;
And in bewitching the silky skies had I died;
So shan’t I return to the boisterous Heavens,
The Lord bitterly misplaced me, and lied
To me behind the graves, and rained gardens.

For in the days that followed my death, hath I sworn
To kidnap back the life that had been blown;
And be the Black Spirit they would find pertinent
To hear the trespassing of death, and their moments
To crunch the life of the ones before me;
Amicable as they were in their apposite defence,
But not as the lush presentation of their beauty;
That I should entrance and ****** them, hence.
Who couldst defend my murdered youth but me;
Who couldst strongly step on my bursts of anger;
Who couldst restore my prone poetry but ******;
Who couldst live but I, who lives forever;
Who couldst separate my from my agony;
Who couldst live but with ill fate, and be?

For the age that I hath lost, and thoughtless’ burnt
And of being grace, and kind hath I not heard;
And with delight, shan’t I stop and turn;
For no obvious reason, for no maddened alert.
I am stronger in my rebirth, and with sharp, strident
Steps, hath I grown more braced and confident;
For no reason, for no further light hath I doubted;
For no marks, nor discourse hath I faulted;
For such apologies, and humility are obsolete,
For my imagination of such is clear, and yet;
I hath no more obligations so, to be met—
And with such unwavering strength crystal clear,
And everlasting sleep to me so near,
I am to grow out of the vines of my grave;
And descend carefully on the midnight’s cape.
And yet, who is sleeping sweetly in his wife’s bed;
I shall soon send him into delicious death.

For the life that had been obediently drawn;
For the miraculous night that turned to dawn,
For the life that had belonged to me, and so
I am to be above the stars, and ever in the know
All my victims so sternly, thoughtfully, and deeply
I am to **** reverently, and by sweetness, vigilantly:
“I am to drink the redness, and be the Sun’s equal”
My voice singing through the forest’s damp halls.
And now yet, with the futile man dead in my arm,
I fling myself into another chained woman’s charms!
With her blood so capricious dripping down my throat;
I can feel myself furiously sweat, and sweetly float;
I am to rouse in transparency through the roof;
And be the midnight, no more aloof!

And to be the Spear of the universe, and hell;
I would like to wish every fault and demerit well;
Soon, there shan’t be the raucous singing of jingle bells,
Death is in everyone—eating off of their shells.
Ah! My lover’s flesh, that I am devouring eagerly;
Now is but a piece of provision so sweet to me;
In which I canst indulge in but a locked pain;
Feeding off of his blood and its red rain;
Ah, I am so hungry, and those eyes are for me!
He gasps, and I am free now, as the flannel sky;
I am free to haunt and grasp all about me,
I can feel their smell descend about so nigh.
My lover, and his vain woman of the scorched past
Are now in death, far from their sly voices and hearts!

And to be the Sword of the Space, and devils;
I feel honoured to be part of the evils;
And be the taunt and haunting to all men,
To all this Earth’s visions, emblazoned fiends!
To me, all of their deaths hath been inscribed;
Ever since I was grown from dead, and my lungs
Hath been imbibed with more pronounced vibes,
And choruses more awesomely sung;
I am to assimilate those humans, now, ha-ha!—
And be a creature of the night, the Hailed One,
They shall bow to me in flash, and in my old Stanza;
All murders are to be spoken, to be done!
My enemy, and his once powerful screeching speech;
Gunned down into his last breath, the gospel’s ditch!

And the vitriolic dream, now, that is too high;
I shall not stop until all petrified souls shall die,
There, above me, the afterlife writing in agony,
Justified in every sense, and be the last poem
That I shall write in my dated prose of destiny;
I hath become the Satan to destroy, and numb
All the rhymed births and breaths of life, ah!
I hath been ****** into this fate, of my own;
And be I never a praised, nor a soft wife—
Yet I am impressed already, by closed immortality;
And my youth forever, with its endless passion
And latest bursts that happen in eternity,
I am to counter and cure all my halted questions;
I shall go and return, I hath all the time in me!

And Ruthlessness, then, that is too holy;
I hath admired thee with all the blood in me,
And to restore the humanity in me prominently;
I shall **** all, and make their deaths permanently!
For all deaths are idyll to me, and my abode,
An abundance as I roam, and float about!
What hath happened to my human, and bold songs,
For they hath not been a sky to me, all along;
What a condescending spirit a human is,
For they think what a fierce not is;
Whilst all that is thin is bold, and a rose;
What a singing displeasure to my prose!
Ah, to **** all, and cherish all their dyings,
I shall cut and devour with my heart singing!

Then, into the skies, as I ascend I hear
All flowered flesh is but towering so near;
They hath heartbeats and clueless rainbow;
They are not to fight me with violence,
They hath no tyranny, nor are above my shadow;
They hath no abode—but my impertinence!
Ah, and blessed am I, so meekly blessed;
This is but the best day I hath ever had,
For so anger and betrayal are not unwise at all;
And so holy are miseries, and miseries are ******.
I am to **** more, and bring my joys to Fall,
I am to eat, and devour more in summer.
I am to drink more, and bleed in winter;
To celebrate deaths, and merry more in my walls!

Then, into the Earth, as I descend I see
That I descend with a later moon, and be
For all who loved me, there shall still be death;
For I shall arise amidst these unhearing walls,
For the many teardrops that were shed,
For the shrieking pains I shared, and their toll;
For the world, that hath not been too exquisite,
For the crowds, that hath all along lacked such wit,
For the Sun, that hath ne’er been a soul sweet;
For a love that ne’er had a single beat!
For a love that I hath fragrantly cursed,
For a love I hath determined to make worst.
I am to eat, as though I am the Sun, the West;
I shall put its whole black pit to sleep, to eternal rest!

With all good cheer hath I spoken, and thus I turned
To see further stomachs and chests lying down, churned
And eating off of them is a swarm of butterflies
That were stirred to life by my own puke of frights;
And I, spitting out but flames and fires from within me
And my mouth that hath burnt thousands of thee,
I am not afraid to claim my rights, as I please;
And to destruct far more indeed, as I wish—
Which I celebrate as an ordinary gift, and yet
Hath made and shall render all conscious souls mad!
And all about me hath gone to precious sleep
In their admiration of my prominence, and weep;
And all about me hath turned to obstinate death;
Ripped down of breath, and any traces of life, of late.

With sainted grand glory hath I writ, and rejoiced
The merry and cordial pleasures of deathly bliss;
For such splendour, are not lovingly present every day,
And the vanished worlds have become dear to me today;
That now, as I devour another’s wrist, and arms
I am absorbed within death’s knocking charms;
And his limbs offer farther delicacy than the stars,
And his soul be a playful drink two worlds apart;
Another one, that tastes like those fine vines,
And grapes, and the fruits smelling like Truths.
Ah! I sit there, leaning softly against the Cedar Mine;
Sipping his blood by the humming Eolian lute;
His veins dry and graze me, sickly, too fast;
I hath not had a drink and feast too vast!

And with deadening love hath I lived, and existed
In the world into which Faith hath not fitted;
Like the ode in me, trying to tie the Moon
Whilst such dimmed favours laid in the Sun;
I had been crafted only, but in vain
I had been transmitted also, but in pain
And all despaired, with my talents, to death
To be woken again in renewed hate;
What a fault of thine, o thee, and perhaps mine;
At times a rustic stupor to me, and yet is fine!
I am the Evil to be, and Satan so free,
At peaceful hours shall I come to thee;
Finding my ecstasy in Death and ******;
My civilian songs to the Earth, forever.

Yet
Ere th' season dies a-cold
And cold winds return to howl,
I shall rise through th' violette sky,
Telling t'at my love for thee has died.

May Lawes and Jenkyns shield its rest,
In green skies' bosoms, on dribbling rains' chest,
With a solid poem t'at as ever be my guest,
Back, back my dead love is, in whose nest.

And my heart, once its merited soliloquy,
Cursest thee like a fetished beast,
Bearing all onto the zephyr's shoulder,
Hopping through all past enigmas.

Hath it tampered with my viol's wood,
Hath it grinned over through my sins,
Throwing the grievous and the acute,
Breaking my febrile Eolian lute,

Hast it fashioned so airy a mood,
Hast it carved so spacious a fire,
Hast it drawn stealth leaves from my roots,
Hast it seemed neither mist nor shades,

Then release me, fly me outrite,
To new freedom t'is benevolent night,
With thy grim anew bride and suit,
Wed her away with thy colourless love,

My love is dead, dead, dead, and grim,
A stranger to me and my volatile dreams,
Unlike a cloud t'at once seemed so light,
Casting a shade beyond one's porous fright,

My love's as dead, dead, dead, as it may seem,
The subtlety of my eyes hath drifted,
The congested breath of mine hath lifted,
And I hath now seen what t'is world means.

My love is dead, dead, dead, as t'at of thine,
Thou art a dead soul to my lonely wine,
I'd watch thee bleed profusely on the floor,
I'd close the windows and smile over the door.

I want thee dead, dead, dead, and hastily step away,
I hath no other words for thee, I hath no more t' say,
I'd stop by as thy heartbeat grew weak,
And hear the last words thou wouldst speak.

I've dreamt of a day and night I'll meet thee again;
By th' immortal moon and his starry friends;
Sweet like t'ese very days of our loving youth;
Shy like th' songs of thy Eolian lute;

I've dreamt of a day and night by a far bridge;
A place just for th' pious, serious and th' rich;
A place where my heart shalt but love again;
A place where all t'ese dreams may make sense;

I've dreamt of a day and night by thy side;
A dream t'at sees through me bare and wide;
T'at a poet like me should go craft and write;
By my fiercest sense, through th' day and night.

I've dreamt of a day where there'll be rain;
T'at a touch of thine shalt make me insane;
T'at walking away shalt but seem too insidious;
Within a curious dream so fast and luminous.

I've dreamt of a night where all is fantasy;
T'at reality shan't again make us come back;
T'at all sadness' dead as it should be;
T'at tears of joys are all t'ere is to take;

I've dreamt of a day thou shalt stand by me;
Seeing me through words, poems, and memory;
T'at thy hands shall be th' only I long to hold;
So far God canst see; so far eyes canst behold.

Here I am! Elevated to a sordid state of mind;
And about my surroundings I claim no clue;
I just awoke from a kindred nightmare, true;
That I had had of late, ah! And I was blind;
Perhaps there ain’t a lovely creature around;
To t’is fate I hath been forcefully bound.

Here I was! As deranged as I may be now;
That I hath loved and vowed on the down low;
As much as I used to do, and again today;
The finished worlds spoke to me like yesterday;
And the dead, descending in smoke on me;
Seem even more real than yon living tree.

And so, far from the bulging little lilac;
All hath been too demanding and tough;
That all hath been terse under the sunlight;
I pretty much am frightened not by the night;
But I, seeking not the morning of the hand;
I only find my love in words, and paint;

And being far, behind in the know;
I wish I could understand today and tomorrow;
That they shan’t stare at me with rugged fright;
That I can still share their gift for the light;
But so, they cannot see my calm and anger;
I hath grown out of them, forever.

To those whom I once loved, and now still do;
To those whom I hath found in my chest, anew;
To those in whom I once engrossed my faith;
To those that hath hurt me, of late;
To those, to whom Midnight is wrong poetry;
To those, to whom my love remains yet for me.

To those, to whom love bears another form;
To those, to whom Lavender is barely a poem;
To those, who threads not enough love to love me;
To those, to whom my herd is not yet born;
To those, to whom such singing is not what I see;
To those, to whom my applause is but my own.

To those, to whom darkness is not fair;
To those, to whom joys ought not to be shared;
To those, to whom May is May, and hark!
To those, to whom tears are in the park;
To those, to whom depression is laughter;
To those, to whom laughter is bland anger!

To those, to whom tears are a strand of love;
To those, to whom scars are not enough;
To those, to whom coarseness is strength;
To those, to whom care is not in length;
To those, to whom loving is not to be gently;
To those, to whom wrong is fate, and hate is me!

For such sadness is gloom, and gloom is joy;
To me that joy has flown, and misery borne still,
And misery that carries happiness to feel;
Misery that itself remains an elegant coy;
And there is no place on earth for us to roam;
No glance at our rights, no words for our poems!

For such sorrow is true, and sick am I;
I am a stranded fool to the simmering sky;
That even the Sun shall render me wrong;
I am not to enchant its unwavering songs;
And so all my poems be a string of hate;
None has cursed me, but strained me of late.

For such tears are faint, and weak am I;
I am a disillusion to the enlightened lie;
A disgust to the retraced steps and roads;
I am a disturbed one to the minds of both;
I am diseased, a sick to the brain and cold;
I am a heartless litter, a stained cloth.

For such illness, and tortured am I;
They shan’t know me, even my lies;
That in the graveyard that we could stay
Holding hands at the passing of awkward days;
I am too delighted at the bribed night;
I am alone, a solitaire under daylight.

For such disgrace, and hateful lesions;
For such talent is but an illusion;
That in the tomb that only they surrender;
Asking that the slyness shan’t last forever;
That they shall ask us to forgive, and hear
What they all now seek, and have here.

For such hallucinations, and thoughts;
For such merits, and feelings, are locked;
That I can see not the soil gray today;
Tramped on by their noisy feet, and say;
That even such a modest fate they deny;
That all that exist are a lie.

And who shall be me, who shall see?
I live in a poem, and die in paint;
That they shall seek not the quiet of me;
I smell like grass myself, and turpentine;
I shall grow and die both in the shadows;
And cease on the halo of tomorrows.

And who shall seek me, who shall care?
These months hath been depressed and unfair;
Ere such days, there were lonely winds;
The most severed hauling I’d ever seen;
And with them were sane, pitiful torments;
Sending me off into sad, consumed moments;

And who shall be with me, who shall comfort;
I hath been warded off by my cruel Lord;
‘Hind the shades, I can only hear weeping screams;
Yet not so beauteous as the raging beams;
And who shall hide within my slumber’s visions;
For I hath no pleasure, nor divine provisions;

And who shall be by my side, who shall sleep;
For these dreams hath no notions to keep;
And whose disdained wisdom shall fight to stay;
Whilst they hath words no more, not to say;
And who shall sleep amongst they frayed wise;
None to live under them, nor be their disguise;

And who shall be my darling, be my gloom;
I hath no more wit left, not to meet;
Nor discomfort, nor to see my light poem;
I am not entertained by their sullen bits;
For such laughs are tears, and insincere;
For such songs are bitter, none that I hear;

And who shall be my heart, be my truth;
Who shall be grief to play my Eolian lute;
I hath seen none else among this seared grass;
And my winters shall go, and for fires to last;
They made me leave my heart in the sick past;
They hath made me and my chest apart;

And who shall be my tree, be my kind;
My poem is in good and evil and their lines;
For no dearer has sought me, by mean peril;
They’ve wished to run me into an Evil;
Ah! But whose love can be, to love me;
I am a literal madness no soul would be;

And who shall be my tree, be my lover;
Perhaps this sadness shall last forever;
And such joys shall sleep in demerits;
And the weathered daydreams, shan’t meet;
Perhaps I am meant to be my sweetheart—
Nor my darling, a thousand worlds apart.

I saw my love in 'other world,
By the sides of a damp city,
By the barns of faithless forests,
Under the name of Coventry,

I stared deeply into his eyes,
Scared of finding unconscious lies,
I told him scriptures of past tales,
Behind three cups of wine and ale,

He parted and left all alone,
Burning aside all single words,
In love with the sickly false worlds,
Dismantling spirits he had borne,

I was demolished and lonely,
Smothered by violet solitude,
Not one loveliness could heal me,
Not even my Eolian flute,

But soon I found my honest Lord,
Left adrift by disruptive worlds,
I saw Him in sleep and poetry,
I felt His words strongly in me,

I learned and read with two red eyes,
With a rage on furious evenings,
I squinted into the dried tepid skies,
Firm to thunder and music sounds,

I tore through my religion,
I passed by lone oblivions,
All were plain and spiritual,
All were lurid and magical,

All was poetry, that one of mine,
I was stunned, my idioms were blind,
I had found the scent of my soul,
A faithful show I'd strained to hold,

And all was neither silent nor drowned,
But a reality that never frowned,
A frugality that had found its league,
My heart healed and got no longer sick,

And all sprinted towards another way,
A way to which I had none to say,
A delight like the sun's violent rays,
Vanished worlds were real to me that day,

And there was the music of the stars,
The swift dance of the heavens' bars,
I knew my God was not that far,
I could see Him with my heart ajar,

And I too danced to a fairy song,
That I'd drained to sing all along,
To bow and thrill by my poetry,
To hail His instance there with me,

And the world too was dressed in rags,
A dead end blinding to their age,
And their worries and frayed hustles,
Mocked by their cloaks and green barrels,

And all mornings would sound empty,
For as far as my eyes could see,
I would dream in my shy prayers,
Asking bounties from the Giver,

And feel the salt among the sea,
Witness the cupboards of the stars,
Watch the moon take its long night walk,
Hear dusk and clouds hold their late talk,

And kiss the sands within my hands,
Cherish the flower of my senses,
Shine like the sun all over again,
Be relieved from heartaches and pains,

Be healed from wounds and agonies,
Be free as grouse and butterflies,
Be pure and free and fair and clean,
Bear forgiveness to thy worst sins,

Be hefty and feisty and sweet,
Be witty and solid and bold,
Be tough in rain and bloodied heat,
Be hardy in illness and cold,

And to seal comfort on my chest,
To my senses in the whole round,
Whilst no wind yet brewed in the West,
And the lost bits were to be found.

Ah, thee, standing beneath the crescent moon;
Dark in thy chest of white substance,
Impure in thy porcelain light,
Corrupted by the bashful night,

And who said thou could understand;
Thou were menial and rigid and cold,
Thou talked away and danced to the light,
Thou made lavish for me a nightmare.

Thou, who seemest just like granite to me
As hard as its surface could be,
And although it had a clean look,
Thou hath been wronged by thy own sins.

I am a threat to thy aura,
An abnormal cloud and satire;
Like a sickness, a secret oblivion,
Thou dream of me not in red and grey.

I am a fly to thy barren tales;
A trouble to thy singing flute.
But who said she could fake a dance;
By the divine Eolian lute?

And thou, whou seem just like granite to me;
As hard as its surface could be,
And though it had a clean look,
Thou hath been cursed by thy old sins,

Thy hands, made ***** by her touch;
Furtive in the most fatal sense,
And thy charm, handsome but mindless,
Knocked my heart torn, drowned and lifeless,

What if I feed thee to my heart;
Whenst all thou doth is crush it again,
What if I let thee tear its parts;
By the love riddles of thy friends,

What if t'is resolute ode is dead;
Leaving me no more beat and breath,
What if my breath hath no more pause,
But hurts and pains and screams and dies.

I dream not of thy lucid words,
They are not beauty to my prose.
I dream not of thy flavoured verse,
Which stays fictitious to my cause.

I dream not of thy flagrant smile,
That lasts only for a while more.
I dream not of thee as I should,
They are a mirror of falsehood.

I dream not of thy mortal blood,
It likes to lie and fool my heart.
I dream not of thy diseased mind,
I shalt be fine with my crooked tears.

I dream not of thy paradise,
For in there shalt be thou and she;
Laid in the thoughts of thy naked lies,
Only poetry dies away with me.

Winter  Eolian



Believe  it or  not
winter   is
preparing  to return
by its   returning  suitcase.



Beauties    of
Bollywood   and  Hollywood
now free    from  cold-****
of   the  winter-villion.



Winter  is    planning
to   flee  from
mango's   flower.

It   has    given
divorce to
the  wood-fire.




But   currently
a polar  beer
has  come to
New  York's street-Winter-Nepolian

Last  time    winter
had   wine
in  its white    ice-beer mouth.