You are made of the stars, and in haste
You put my love and my heart to rest;
You are like and unlike a dream today
But I have dreamt since last night
I am a ghost to the resting world;
As much as my poems are, as my words.
You are made of life, hell and heaven;
But I am too far away to breathe your air
And in your pristine eyes, such moments
Are a piece of untouched, unreal affairs
You are but a star to me, not a reality;
I oft’ see you on those stages of beauty.
Who be with me here, ‘tis awkward;
His aura is not thine, I assume,
And his lips, which are blue, blind mine;
Who hath saluted me in the worst of storms
And still, I could not trust for long;
But you may find for me another song.
Who be with me here, ‘tis strange;
Your love is sadly, not in such range,
And my whining is deemed absurd;
I am entrapped in a loud world.
What is a charm then, when not thine?
What are the workings of one’s mind?
What be this song I sing to you, my love;
In a word so surreal and full of images,
In a cry so full of anger and rage;
In a mortal chain but of my sonata,
I cannot afford to hate my enemies,
I cannot be the least of kisses.
What be this poem but of thee, my darling;
In the graphs that carry you, in grayness;
In a pertinence of shots, and obedience,
All those frozen moments of resilience.
You, standing there in silence, to say
You will charm me through the night and day.
I looked at the sore stars last night;
And one looking like you, that high
I cannot reach such heights, to see
To love you then, my celebrity;
Her heart hath taken you from me,
Leaving my youth alone to sick poetry.
I looked at such grey film, and thought;
Their births were not those of my books,
That even being in love is not sane,
I am not among the best of their men;
Even my love is not lithe to you, and him;
That such bounties are to remain a dream.
For the rose to see me, on rainy nights
To sit by me and the Northern Lights;
To watch the rain stop and stand still,
To comprehend the fetal crush I feel.
I see my naked heart, on the rough floor
Battered and smothered outside the door.
For the sun to shine on me, on cold nights
And to bring you over, my starlight
To walk me down the earths of fame;
And to make time recognize my name,
To tame such an unloved fate, and seem
Like all these are not just a dream.
For my crush to walk me, to your heart
To feel the excitement of loved delights;
Perhaps my lover, is not a celebrity,
But a reality to be handed to me,
To replace my faded fame that was stolen;
To free me from my shielded torments.
For such a continuation, and rain
For the rain I always long to have;
The one separated from me, like you,
I may wish for such longings to be untrue,
As there is no continuation in reality,
But dreams, they are to me an eternity.
For there is no virtue, and unlike thee,
My beauty is no good to myself;
Perhaps the highest misery lies in me,
And this loneliness is virtuous poetry.
For there is no handsomeness like yours,
But ‘tis only a dream to be in your arms.
I walk away silently, as always;
You are not acquainted with my ways.
Who am I to actuate a dreamy kiss;
I am not even a retort to lying bliss.
There is no fate in our hands, ah;
I have been consumed by all fiends.
I read away in silence, as always;
For love hath seemed too awkward to me,
There is too much sunshine every day;
That I am blind, I am not sweet to beauty.
Just like the famous days you celebrate;
I am not to know my own self, even late.
For love hath seemed to cruel to me,
One that consumes me with too much vigour,
Too insolent in its youth, merciless;
Mercies have left it, and not returned;
Love has corrupted, and stained me now,
What my edge shall bring I not know.
For love hath too much intensity, so now
I may and may not be able to love you though,
To say your love to me out of this dream,
To make all that scream sounds possible;
To make me trust, more than it seems,
To make this sore heart endurable.
For love hath broken me, and my vow
To love you might not be the one now;
Love hath had my chastity too high,
That knowledge may not be amicable;
That my prominence is but not the sky;
That my memories are not speakable.
For love hath had me, rendered me low
I am not noticed by my window;
And everything in my midair looks stale
And all of my sins may not be purified.
I am tortured and conjured in my shell,
But no love shall amend it right.
For love hath spent me, and stepped on me
Breaking my every inch of beauty;
But what is my beauty—a history to all,
I am not known beyond my artist’s wall;
I am a silence, to all circles and worlds,
I am not heard beyond my murdered words.
