The irony of always being the poet, but not the poem,
And the irony of having unmatched metaphors, but not the muse,
The irony of being the shooting star, but not the moon,
The irony of being the ocean, but not having a river to flow in it,
The irony of being the ashes, but not the sparks to ignite the fire.
The irony of being the forest, but not having the beasts to inhabit it,
And the irony of being the lover, but not being loved.

It's throbbing so is my heart numb now,
It's continuous river so are my eyes dried now,
It's like a sky full of stars, so are my eyes blind now.
It's warm outside, yet my blood is cold.
The path leads to you yet my shadow is in search of my soul.
Steps of you have faded yet the light in my heart is burning.
You opened springs yet dried rivers that never run dry.
You never looked back yet my frozen feet stand where you left.
There's still a hope yet the sun & the moon shall never meet.