Has God given me what is needed,
For such a perfection to be noted,
How could I describe the absolute,
With words so humble and suggest less.

Had I lost the words to portray,
To betell her countenance in patience,
Had I lost it for once and for all,
Once I figured language was useless.

Her eyes coloured the beautiful skies,
With an everlasting cerulean existence,
Crushing on the very end of the horizon,
With incessant waves of a wild ocean.

The way she looked at me and smiled,
Turned the gates of lofty heavens open,
I briefly sank in her unconscious mind,
In her crystal thoughts and wonders.

I was driven in her brief flashbacks,
of serene dreams of childish innocence,
It was a different realm of existence,
Where every feeling had a certain sense.

There was something so clear in there,
In that ****** never ending haven,
It reflected myself in a peculiar way,
It was only better, sincerely magnificent,

Her lips never stopped while I sank,
In that purely irrational instance,
I didn't hear her voice, never at all,
Her thoughts were verbally omniscient.

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Woe, my worthless self.
Woe, thy present distress,
Woe, thy miserable fact,
That thou knit in the past.
Woe, thy hunger to accomplish,
Thy enthusiasm to will and be,
Blame thyself of short  efforts,
Of a selfish desire that matters.
Woe, for thou, as a selfish being,
Living a lie, without seeing,
Further than a wish, a dream.
Wishing upon a sun,
that'll never rise,

Or,

Beam.

Whither is light during darkness?
Whither is life after death?
Whither is logic in madness?
Whither is hope in nothingness?
Whither is the beginning after the end?

He, begged her to be,
The mistress of his mind,
The plot to his literature,
And the omnicient of his heart.

She, smiled then exclaimed,

What if you were,
The rhyme to my poetry,
The sound to my music,
And the rythm of my heart?*

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Man up Jack,
Stand there bold and up front,
Knot it, knot it one last knot.
Tie that rope, of an endless shameful hope.
Don't you see Jack?
They fear this obsolescent rope,
Considering it a tragic symbole, yet you do not?
For us, it is a way to cope.
Or shall I say a way to escape?
Allas, reasoning death is barren.
It is getting tight...
Jack... Jack! You are already gone,
Breathless, souless corpse you are thereon.

An old man, at the corner of the street,
Gently, he grabbed a violin, then a seat.
He was so violent and missed the beat.

An old man had it wrong, all the notes,
Covered in old ***** rags, stinky clothes,
Beneath his worn pants, appeared bare toes.

An old man played voilin, amidst the sleet,
Of an excessive bold fraction came a heat,
Of a strong volition to make sense of a beat.

A broken man at the corner of the street,
Without any glance by anyone, or a greet,
lonesome loner life, filled of silent weep.

An old man amidst the crowd and sleet,
With a dreadful face and a noisious glee,
Which echoes in an empty cup for coins.

An old dreaded man with a dreaded seat,
Waiting for a handful, to a mouthful meal,
To survive another day, but never to heal.

A deaf man at the same corner for years,
Playing violin, on a cold dreaded seat,
A man with empty eyes and deaf, ears.

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A stellar atom of dust, soaring through a clumsy vacant space.
A mere emptiness of emptiness that cannot be grokked by any intuition.
A tiny small sort of existence, lost wandering in an ocean of darkness, upon deep hells of fire and lofty heavens of ice.
A stellar dust brought to universe by a mighty might.
A delicate stellar dust brought to live this devine irony, which is called life and death.
A stellar atom thou shalt exist, from dust to dust thou shalt live.
And by any means, thou shalt die.


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