Eyes so somberly stricken and painted upon the face like the eighteen hundredths' art.
The poet wished to find the artist for eyes such,
Settling for some coward who called himself a lion.
"He was braver than most" thought the poet, thinking twice while reading the words written for the grand feline who was one disguised phantom.
The poet was one alchemist,
Turning the black and white to golden to paint all of it blue,
And all at ones when the ink bled over the sporadic tinkers,
Suddenly all of it was grey.
The beautiful fibs the poet found all over his eyes, his words, his smile, his gaze, his presence and his everything,
Turned to be the phantoms over the midnight ceiling, filling the pages with a sense of forfeiture.
Solace stricken was the poet for the momentarily legendary life as the words spilled over the papers effortlessly,
The same words which now fill up glasses of sleeplessness and empty inebriations.

-

Forlorned am I for apprehension of my own self when the blooms of flowers and cheerful glee hover over human kind.
The string of equations, would it fail for the comprehension of the absurdity of the humanity of self.
The gleed cheery humans with the triumphant smiles and shiny eyes,
Seem so human, so ablazed, so full of emotions, so full of sorrow yet the willingness to stand up.
The obnoxious, cheerfully stupid jester that one could become, and yet could sit with a straight face to observe the cheers and clinks of glasses of the people with the paranoia stricken mind as to how to act.
They would say "fake it till you make it", and I would no matter how long it is until I get to the peak,
Veiling over the woebegone of my thumping device.

Shush...
No one has to know.

-

Oh, did my words shoot through the deepest parts of you?
Was my wrath too much for you to take?
How much anguish did you think I had the capacity to hold?
And now are we drifting away?
Tell me, is it your duty to love me?
Or is it indeed willingness?
How long would we be like the continental drift?
Do I have anything in myself to make it better?
How much more tragedy could I hold in me until I am busted?
I once loved this place, still do, but am I sure?
How many more days do I have in my wrist until I am taken away?

-

The sweet nothings are now nothing,
The limited vibrant colour over my dark canvas came to a lifelong halt,
The words shared at the end row of the public transport turned to dust.
The blue gloss paper we shared, turned out to be me,
Torn and blue.
The drafts, deleted, never to be restored,
Tears tattered over during the final straw.
The rules broken like the faults over my heart from the yearning of you.
The sunlight shut by the windows,
Rusted to never to be touched again.
The kinship taken as a lovely beginning,
Turned to be a brutal ending,
With a story too hollow for narration.
A heart too caught up with itself to mourn over the loss of its life.

-

I wish I knew when it was anew,
That I would stand in your burial mural,
But you wouldn't stand to be during my ovation.
I thought I knew whom to call first,
But I learnt more.
For you I would have done it a thousand times over,
With the eyes which hunts you down, swore to love you a million hundred times over and over again.
Only to learn your love as the Gardens of Babylon,
Fearing to go over it when unprecedented.
Your cowardly smile fades with the sudden flick of my neck towards the direction of your gaze,
Aversion of eyes as if we went back to the day we met,
Yet with the history of all the things we never could be.
You were the maybe, I always thought to be almost.

-

I saw Asaka toiled around in the car where I lost my sight in, while crossing the road.
She sits by the ledge of the roof with the most inviting and graceful smiles.

Oh Asaka, I saw her in between the larger waves with rocks in her pockets.
She once held an apple so tenderly in her lovely yet scandalous hands.

Asaka, her name so tarnished, yet would she hold you when you need it,
She is the girl anyone would die for,
But yet uncertain of their choice,
Knowing well they would be with her in the end.

Her beautiful eyes like the fire of a sullen wood staring invitingly under the deepest parts of the tarn;
Her hair as enchanting as the aurora, streaming around the water;
Her arms reaching up, the warmest of greetings.

My flesh merely brushed against her's,
A kiss as a blessing from her and the momentary relief washes over me,
Until I realise,
She left.
Again.

-

It has been warm and bright all around,
Fair flickers of generous warmth,
An overbearing sense of callow and mellow luminescence.
The clinks and tinks of older acquaintances,
Seeming anew in the light of the warmth.
The ashes fell... gradual and slow,
The warmth of the fire surround with the bright illumination of the newly acquainted who chanted your name like a forgotten mantra.
They burnt in the fire, so warm,
Yet so cold.

-

Sat on the wooden platform,
Gazing over at the crashing waves.
The dark sky blushing magnificently,
For the shyness of the Sun,
Questioning to elate.
The sweet nothings of the sky and the Sun,
The waves, dancing with the wind for reassurance,
Watching the sweet love unfold,
The little red crabs acquire their muses,
Diving in the sand,
Shining dreamily over the marine shore.
And there I remained sat on the wooden planks,
Accompanying, the turbulence of the wind over my messily slicked back hair,
The salt stricken air over the tanned skin of the marine,
Admiring the romance of the sky.

-

Looking forward with hope is much more rewarding than looking backward with regrets.

-

I am the wind flowing the flag,
And the gravity pulling us down.
The moment of diffusion,
Lights the fuse as the dominoes cascade in a line.
The start of an engine to the rise of the moon,
From the groundwork to the clockwork,
The strategy sets the scene for the tale.
From the zone out stare during the chain reaction of counter moves,
To the smirk during the checkmate,
I never loose.

-