The fire rises ominously,
transcending boundaries-
engulfing pieces of shredded
papers written lovingly.

Love is in the rain,
and among the thunder
Love is inside every bird,
shot down by a hunter.

Love touches the horizon,
wandering all around the sea
Love sits still inside every heart,
waiting to be free.

Love hangs in thick air,
creating dainty spots on grass
Love is inside every dust particle,
settling down on a carcass.

Love is among the crowd,
penetrating wide and afar
Love is inside every boy
who has lost his father in war.

Love is in the colours,
spread out on life's palette,
But is love inside every man,
having a heart so scarlet?

volatile observation suspended amidst reality and fiction,
subdued voice echoes down a hallway of convictions;
like a despotic fog blurring options for a swarm of insects
who eventually finds way to a lizard's grotesque carcass.

a feeling, in my gravel ribs, this might be a dead end
staring up at the sky, an atheist's hollow vision;
air and venom flowing through wires of flesh,
tired abusive drunkards- returning home a mess.

my dear texts~"what if, it's nothingness which spirals into life?"
I am left in my bathtub with a glass of honey or wine,
and the last ray of optimism, living vicariously through my mind.

If I were that scar above your rose tinted lips,
of whom you keep picking and removing dead cellular dust,
I probably would have bled more than you think.
I can not shed tears, possibly.
The hate you show me rises
from your porous subcutaneous layer of insecurity.
I heard every little wound needs love to heal,
And so will I-
your dearest hideous scar.

A gift of perpetual silence,
from a deafening scornful frequency;
Eternal tranquility, we chase,
so is it considered victory?
Victorious it must feel,
for the one who departs abrupt;
In the halt prior to mine,
leaving a chaos in my heart.

I am nothing more or less
than a pathetic line of symmetry.
In this paradox of existence,
a listless, feeble entity.
I am nothing more, and nobody
for the universe to see.
A dissonant heap of dust,
and never a beloved priority.