Day by day,
night by night,
such a cliche opening;

I hate it.

Usually,
I can sit & write unbounded
but recently my brain's been
cleaved into microscopic encryptions.

It seems almost impossible to
...elucidate my mental paradigm
...or maybe to accept it?

Sometimes...
I find myself
yearning to write about nature
but then I begin to cogitate on
how aesthetic nature is.

Trees and flowers.
"You and me.
K-I-S-S-I-N-G
..under the trees.
R-O-L-L-I-N-G
...in the flowers.
You and me."

****.

Don't get things misconstrued,
I just love,
writing about love.

There's a girl I've never met
but mentally it feels like,
we share telepathy.
I feel like
...within the distance between us,
there's this distinctive cryptic aura
and I yearn to decrypt it.

****.

...told you I just love writing about love.
Ironically though,
I'm far from ready for it.
                                                             ­        -d.b.d.

The sanctum sanctorum of love
Reverberates with the waves
From the souls that are in harmony
Welcomed with a tranquil presence
Uplifts you from mere existence
Surrounds you with the freedom
Where hearts run wild with euphoria
Dances to the signature tunes
Each note birthed from the souls
Prepare for a symphony of grandiose
Ostentatious display of true feelings
None, but the connoisseurs of Love
Are captivated with the harmony
When Love is interpreted from heart
This is for Love that does not alter
Remains etched in the mind, forever
Love is not a word, but a feeling, true
Neither what the world deciphers
It is not what we see everyday
Only with access to the sanctum sanctorum
Feel the love that's rare
Therein, lies the truth

When you left it was hard to see through the vapour that was left by your soul,

just transient corridors paved with emptiness, echoes of your voice,

staring through windows as if they were mirrors reflecting the spirit within, foreboding, dark skies, rain as cold as my tears

these walls hide your face,  they come alive and ****** the memories away,  mocking in synergy, the fast approaching coldness of the new day

that transient moment between the comfort of night and the rising sun quickens the weeping spirit

we seek the subdivisions of love, whilst hiding in the darkness of despair,  yet when it comes and the countenance is lifted, the hand of the shadow takes away our light.