Your beautiful eyes are my jewelled crown,
In their depth, all my stars fall down.
A universe spun in sapphire gleam,
Where love walks softly through every dream.

Your darling lips—my sweetest cure,
A balm of flame, both fierce and pure.
With every kiss, the night turns gold,
And time forgets how to grow old.

Your gaze, a spell that bends the air,
Turns silence into sacred prayer.
And when you smile, the heavens sigh—
A blush of dawn in a twilight sky.

Let kingdoms fall, let empires cease,
If I have your breath, I have my peace.
For no throne shines, no fate is sure,
But your lovely lips—my only cure.

So wear my soul like silken gown,
Your eyes, my fate—my pride, my crown.
And in your arms, I seek no more,
For love like yours is worth the war.

When our face will become a face, and not just another Janus-torso, a fiasco constantly grumbling with itself, perhaps the conscious lack raging within us will unexpectedly go out, will be tamed. In the vision-life, many small devils, tempting us to sin and deceit, rumble among the gears of the head, and because in human life there are rarely guides comparable to Virgil, who could faithfully accompany us on difficult days, - one way or another - sooner or later everyone must cross the conscious threshold of finitude for themselves. In our bodies and souls, a hundred thousand sorrows are already outdated, aging, not only from the history of decades, but what is still left of this whole mess; the angry, pure judgment still groans inside:

Reality also compares itself more and more to a grotesque, surreal dream-like cage according to the rules of a given Gluttony theory. In the lost Time, the conscious use of language, the bone-house system dreamed of as solid by the longing for romance, will gradually wear out. - Pondering the movables of ant-minutes, the selfless helping hands are becoming rarer and rarer. Exotic supermodel-shaped angels stare piercingly at spiky star-eyelashes; their fate - you may know - cannot be free, nor irresponsible, because they are all just cheap, petty puppets of a single game.

It would still be good to walk around the scale-steps of Being with giant strides surrounded by blood, in case the frail man could find lasting treasures among the piles of feces; Why do we have to keep moving into the fiascos of alienated tomorrows when a more real home-shelter could be waiting somewhere?! The seagulls of lack have been screaming overhead for some time now and we still don't know whether the melancholy silence nicknamed timeless will finally **** in the suspicion of everyday life, or is it just lazy indifference?!

In life - even if you wanted it to - there can be no more random, pleasant coincidences like some special, already agreed upon, ready-made surprise that among the hiding of cells and instincts, as in most biochemical continuities, the unconditionality of the hidden yeses could still be decoded, for which a relationship that is supposedly lasting, in principle, is still being built. One or two amino acids or DNA helixes still argue, conspire, and get into trouble; it is not even certain that the bombshell lady, whom we asked out on a date due to numerous rejections and persistent failures, will finally give in and, out of sheer neighborly kindness, nod and say yes to a pleasant evening of dinner.

The heavy stone flies at the end of the date, and hits the wounded, stupid, idiot, who believed that he was as valuable as anyone else. Evolution seems to have largely rejected flattery, courtship, and the usual etiquette and manners, the only possible measure of which is material well-being and a luxurious lifestyle.

Misfortune attacks from an ambush, it can sneak up on its defenseless, still hopeful victims; they stand in endless spiral lines with their selfish-greedy happiness recipes, because standing in a given line can rarely let go, because in a narrow space we are jostling and trampling uselessly like eternal whirlwinds.

Your goodbye didn’t come in words.
It came in colors-
Soft at first,then cruel.
Like a crayon box left in the sun,
Melted,twisted,
Still pretending to be whole.

There was a bleeding red in the way you first loved me-
Too much,too fast,
The kind of color that stains your fingers
Long after the page is gone.
I thought I was your favorite,
The one you'd never let dull.
But love can look a lot like fire
When you don't know it's burning you.

You drifted into quiet blue,
A shade that never speaks but always lingers.
It was the kind of sadness
You don't notice until the room feels colder.
Until your name stops sounding like home,
And starts echoing like distance.

I clung to your flickering yellow,
The last of your laughter,
The fake smiles you wore like stickers-
Easy to peel.
Never meant to stay on
But your warmth was borrowed,
And you gave it back before I was ready.

There was hope,once-
A trembling green we drew together,
When we still believed in growing things.
But even gardens wilt without hands to tend them.
And you let go so slowly
That I didn’t realize I was the only one still holding on.

Your silence came next-
Not cold,not loud-just...black.
The kind that seeps into the cracks,
That waits until you're alone to settle in your chest.
You didn't say goodbye.
You just stopped coloring with me.
And somehow, that hurt even more.

Now I sit with with this crayon box
That still smells like childhood and endings.
Picking through pieces you left behind.
The wrappers are torn,the tips all worn-
But I can't throw them away,
They remember you too well.

And maybe the worst part
Is I still sit with that crayon box in my lap,
Picking out the broken pieces,
Trying to draw you into a picture
That never finishes the same way.

Because even now,
With fingers stained and a heart worn thin,
I keep choosing the same colors-
The ones I loved the most,
The ones that hurt the deepest-
And I still press them to the page,
Knowing they'll break again.
But I color anyway.
Because that's how you taught me to say goodbye.

As if we were just robbing each other, we would be robbing each other by trying to assert ourselves by trampling on anyone, in a world from which the appearance of tolerance and empathy has completely disappeared. Our inner, sinful destruction carries the fierce, Sisyphean weight of a huge self-destruction. The giant projector of the soul preserves more than a million memory slides, until Alzheimer's or dementia catches up with it. The ancient secrets of the Universe are already kneaded and coded into our instincts, and yet we often do not dare to safely open our vulnerable hearts.

It is also increasingly difficult to decipher the love of two unknown beats with its bitterly perverse Apocryphal symbols; because sooner or later everyone, increasingly sympathetic, just stumbles upon themselves. Our everyday annoyance is thus devoured by the tolerated patience, whose voice - at least - we do not listen to for the time being.

On the corridor of our dreams, we continuously distance ourselves from the fabric of real reality, of which we are still a part; in an instinctive vacuum, we shrink to endpoints, like the humming worms in the passages chewed by moles under the omniscient surfaces. We stare into the empty distance for a long time, since no one can yet see the certain interpretations. The silence of the outcast - fearful - although it does not teach us to live like a wise thinker, because it is becoming increasingly difficult to survive.