Like a flower,
A corpse
In the scorching heat
Of summer
Clipping wings
Off bones
Sweet bourbons
kisses goodbye
Felt like
A Summery slow death
If I must admit
Running from cruelty feelings
Only to jumped
Into autumn misery
Perfect weather
If you’re a vulture
The kind of love
you only dream of in storms
False excitement,
All ten fingers
Caressing Rosaries
Not a second later only to be
Struck  by flowing stones
As her kiss showed its teeth
Crushed out of air
Only to get high on spanish fly
Written in Haitian cursives
The language of death
These Silly rabbits,
These fu* heartbreakers
They have never learnt,
Forevermore forgotten
Feathers do grow back
There isn’t a single day
I’m not eying the blue sky
Of love,  no matter the weather
Gosh ,
I’m always misunderstood

'Green blue of the sky
heated white-hot'
Vincent saw, what we could not
captured through an artists eye
he put aside his pain
to give us fields of lavender
and glorious scented rain

Sleep is an endless journey,
only the dead can complete
Time is the fortune you can never
afford to have enough of
Love is the tie dye of the different
worn out emotions, of the shirt you say
Faith is the picture frame of the
final art piece, you hope will be portrayed
And sin is the spilled ink on a paper;
the more you try to wipe off yourself, the more
stains you're still left to see.

We live for any few more seconds of sleep,
constantly on this life's limited time to do it all
Trying to have a consistent abstract pattern  of our love
always picturing what our faith can paint in the end
Yet we are all stained by our born sin,
                    -we are truly humans till the end.