Like the blinded son of a regretted night;
he clears his gaze, to avenge his plight.
I seldom fail to adore his cause,
his demeanour, his voice; living it all, but the life of his choice!
I stare at his face and locked be my gaze,
flawless and straight, the ridge of his nose;
sharp like an arrow,
or, just like his heart, elegantly narrow!
Subtle, his smile;
beautiful, just like Autumns and Springs,
but for the moon-less nights, when despondent poetries are all that it brings.
A strand of his hair, piously as it hangs,
like a dying snake with broken fangs;
but seldom am I worried for its fragile roots,
as long as his heart's grounded amidst vicious brutes.
Life's been harsh on most of his days,
for gratitude's the currency, he seldom pays.
Subtle are the evidences of the fights he bled,
creases on his forehead, were its proof, he said.
He did look familiar;
and the longer he gazed, the blurrier I became.
Oh, he was but a sinner, and beguiling were his eyes,
seldom meeting mine, for he'd pay its price.
I shall confront him one day, with weapons of reasons and a heart of clay;
for today, I'll let him hide in my smile,
on the other side of my mirror so vile.
Me, and my poet

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