If all the beauty in the world
ceases to exist someday,
You would still be the unwritten poem for me,
The one I could never finish.
For I fear, that if I do so,
You would be lost forever in this world,
in the unseen books and the untouched pages
and in the hands of all those admirers,
whose fingertips have forgotten,
the art of patience.
What is it?
That draws a knife through the heart?
Is it the separation between them?
The anonymity brewing between them?
The pause of decisions?
The thousand veins that weigh down the feeble heart?
The slithering silver edges tasting of unforgotten dreams ?
You need to draw it once.
The curse of repetition
begins with an imperfect try.
Be brave enough,
Not for the blood,
Not for the teared arteries,
Not for the sun that never sets on
the red river for forgiveness.
But for the silence
That follows.
Sound and Light aren’t different entirely,
nobody shall ever get used to distance.
I wait for your sound, without touching your face,
you become an echo, the reverberation: simply unbearing
I devour an apple, graciously,
of the orchards blooming softly,
extinguished they shall be,
for the valley of snow, bows to no heart.
our pulses prisoned to thoughts.
In a mountain somewhere where cold spares no one,
It’s all dew and despair,
the hands who pick these apples,
have read no verse for equality
it’s a serpent without colour, that teases
our thoughts to an unfulfilling macabre.
how soon we have evolved to non-existence,
of the dream of the fellow
on the cost of furlough of subsidiary resilience.
To define an exit,
is to summon a purpose,
I defined snow, without touching it.
It has never left me since.
In the dreams,
under the sky robbed of stars,
in this utter disturbance of existence.
I wished you never painted me as a mosaic,
as well as I do.
My hands coloring with hues of autumn, winter
and unkissed summer,
because to fail you shall be the end of my potrait.
the symmetry in love is astounding.
Thousand touches on those brown eyes still unfelt
shall yield their numbness:
an art before departure,
a history before invasion.
a cause without a purpose.
This winter ends today
the glass panes conjure a colorful silence :
yellow, a touch of comfort,
when it travels back,
this premonition of forgetfulness
shall shine on you.
Lay these eyelids on purpose, today, at least
What is to be lost? Than a fickle dream
and city made of failed purposes
with us as the lone survivors,
building cities as we forget,
what is like to be loved,
without words.
With every gaze,
the light swallows us,
your face dissolving as a hymn :
my lips murmuring syllables
to recollect what’s left of you,
this defiant dying night.
How easily can every sound
turn into an ache,
how slowly every whisper
can bring you this close.
the speed of separation
ceases but never stops.
I wait for the autumn,
For every closure needs
a drop of color.
Paint me if you can.
with this very gaze,
for every ray of light.
you are most beautiful
when you sleep–
when the coffee-toned notes of your skin
brew, a silent language
while your perfect lips are too tired to doubt my eyes
now, the dark mist of your breath
trickles down my neck
I wait,
I stare at you
unwaveringly.
outside there is a trail of rain,
and the wind
in the willow cage
whispers
as if it dares to tell
the moon and
all the listening night
that this silverlight should not
touch you, in front of me.
SB
Its dark and damp,
The voices disappear in this hall,
The sound of us will never echo,
so we take advantage of this loneliness,
as the way it should be taken,
My hands slowly start touching your lips
in the darkness as you close your eyes,
The trace the neck, the firm cleavage in the tank top going all the way below to your short skirt,
I am just brewing your thighs slowly,
Till you shed the shyness
Kiss my lips
And spread your legs, as I wanted.
SB
Writings to Heaven 