Is it always in the hearts of loners
to gaze outside the windows?
Is it because they long for a ray of sun between the blinds?
...
I wrote you poems.
I spelled ''lust'' in every inch of your thirsty blood cell.
Keep your eyes closed, can you still see me?
...
Black is the shadow that distinguishes
the living from the dead.
Black as a ripe berry,
ready to fall off the tree.
...
February
Is it always in the hearts of loners
to gaze outside the windows?
Is it because they long for a ray of sun between the blinds?
They hear birds cheeping,
as waves crashing on the shores of eternity.
A tragedy that flew between the wisps of your hair.
It is through the February window,
that buildings of concrete emerge like snow
stepped by hordes of people on the edge of a street.
Naked as the soul, is nature,
it lies in a bed of discoloured leafs.
It will all die in February before it blossoms again in spring.
A grey sky has covered every spark in your dark eyes.
Cloudy is your shade.
As raindrops flow and dance along the rhythm of your storm,
a ray of sun struggles to penetrate through your grey canvas.
Heavy seems to be your endless winter.