This syndrome I carry, Seraphic, a butterfly in cocoon churlish eyesight, colliding with your wounds. I will sew your pain Believe me, for I am the traveller of scars, I will kiss your moonlit tears and the paths it travelled, I am an archaic smell of vintage champagne. I shall regenerate always, I shall not die, and when I do, I shall with you.
Pellucid petals of lust,
I, lean over to smell the paper,
Where I lament my dead hopes
My pen is pervicacious
inclined to savour the smoke ignited.
The words are my soul,
Insatiable I am dipped in its white corona.
Cathartic particles of serenity forms
as I write my love,
The paper, the pen, the paper-cuts
soaks me in its sullen charm.
And I declare my writing — my muse.
Carry my heart to the other side
where the scent of petunias swirl on my cheekbones,
something divine, something spiritual
Sparkling diamonds inside my smile,
clinging to my feet, the waters are sublime.
Into that wild path, my destination awaits
where fresh rock-dust picks up the moonlight
forming a ball of yellow delight.
Splash, splash, splash.
Here I am wet in the unblended Opulent offing.
My thoughts unravelling like thick fog
Alcoholic eyes, sullen as raisins.
Metamorphosis of a vibrant soul
dripping dry dust only to absorb
Elysian crisp, orange air.
Dewdrops like sacred groves
twirling on my parched lips,
with lavender Twinings inside
pouring muddle Serenity echo
on the surface of once
the brutality is hidden
lost, in the delights
of frozen warm apple-pie.
A loop of twinkle fields
decorate the darkened corners
of my throat, my white leg
like a partner in poignancy
with fireflies inside the mouth.
with you, I connect the solitude
extending onto my calm thoughts
mending the broken door knobs
and planting a loop of hope.