I am in the woods,
Dark and dense.
Mountains in waiting
Rivers flowing.
Mother at her best,
But the souls lost.
Haunted and riched by the first,
Tested and slaved by the second,
The sun cannot feel me.
I feel her in the sun.
I feel her
in feminine charm
in a sculptors devotion
in the passion of a violinist,
and the emotion of a prostitute.
In the futility of human endeavor
I feel her,
in the purity of my love,
In me, my entire creation.
She is
A desertous mirage,
a painters imagination
or dew on a foliage.
She is a scientist's philosophy
or a philosopher's fantasy.
She is my fuel, an ethereal cloud.
She's been created creatures best
and more than anything else,
She is she herself.
She is
Flawless and mesmerising,
authentic and magnetising.
My each cell, my entire existence
is soaked in her alcohol.
Swaying to her pipe's tunes,
I dance to my serpents moves.
And ask the permission,
to employ my chiefest thoughts
and serve my mistress.
I ask,
Can I be a part of thee?
In the lull that follows in her reply
I imagine her eyebrow edges.
Her seriousness studded with a smile every now and then,
is like a pebble in still water.
The waves generated incite pleasure suffocation.
Her eyes are my windows to the world.
Rising sun adorns her forehead.
Her eyelashes provide an excellent match
for the swaying eucalyptus of savannas.
Her lashy curls remind me of the roller coaster,
I've been in my love.
And the pointed ends of her hair
make the weapon that would see our union.
The atlantic tides roar in her lip curves.
Everything in her seems an ardt to me.
She's gripped me, crept into my soul,
I am not myself, engulfed in her curls.
Burnished desires, traumatised emotions.
I am the mast of a tempestuous vessel.
Lilac indications have brought grey responses.
All's lost, yet a lot to lose.
For now I seek enlightment,
I am on road for my heavenly abode.
And I ask for poetic justice.
Can she write my epitaph?
What love has made of life.
