The Mirrored Shadow Of Your Ghost

The mirror of visions that we cannot see
Sheds light upon the necessary
Pains and gains and sufferings
That, to each other, we give as offerings.

The shadows by the tree
Are playing games with me,
They are pretending to care,
Pretending to be there.

The ghost of your affection
Is one that needs much detection,
For in this sea of crimson red,
Die all the truths you never said.

In Memory Of The Water Beads

Our fingers skated on shallow, still waters
Levitating beads of water,
Vast arrays of aquarelle hues,
That leaped higher at every turn,
In a stringent attempt to reach greater heights,
As if they deserved to live among celestial stars.

Foolish water beads,
There is no glory in wishing death.

Enraged Summer Stanza

There were too many words for my mouth,
So they started bursting out of my eyes instead,
In a silent cacophony,
And there I waited, for those sounds to wake you up
And shatter you down.

Aquatic Melodies

The crescendo of pressed and lifted keys
Brings about a stinging aquatic melody
That drips down to the corners
Of his chapped and forgotten lips.

With every consumed drop,
With every unsung song,
Dies the story of a ball gown,
Guardian of a dozen inappropriate secrets.

Those are the secrets he'd trade in
Over and over again,
Only to feel the edge of that double-sided sword,
Only to feel that pulsating pain again.

Backseat Brainwashing

There are two bodies in the backseat of my brain,
Exchanging long-winded lists of sins and ice-cream scoops.
Their eyes are glued to the forbidden corners
of unfamiliar discoveries.
Without parting gazes, their eyes opened
To more than just each others' bare bodies.
Without moving lips, they vehemently changed
The meaning of every conversation they ever shared.
The space that once severed their unison
Now wrapped them together in an invisible embrace,
In a secret bond, their stares knotting their ties,
Their whispers transforming strings into lace.
They wrapped up their conversation in silence,
With one pair of sleep-deprived eyes
Protesting that love is merely an artful ploy
Fashioned by delusional youth,
Who, bemused and ensorcelled by the lyrical unknown,
Insist on dipping their feet into what is but
A desolate lake of fictitious reveries.
In the last livid moments before the oncoming of darkness,
The second pair of veteran eyes
Conjures, in desperation, a fragmented daydream.
There appears an imaginary punching bag:
For every loving moment, comes a wanton destruction
In conscious delusion.
There, in the midst of their surrender,
lies the blind awakening of two destitute beings in love.