Fragments of the poet's soul 2: a ballad to girasole
Perhaps it is time oh sweet sunflower...
Time to play this tune on repeat till the end of days, losing my mind in the oceans of your eyes, and dancing to the voice of the clouds.
so sweet one allow me a question or two, allow me to ask this of you, allow me to say if i entrust my soul to you would you give it a home ?
if I ask you to visit my dreams will you come? if i warn you about my heart will you heed?
See these Words oh dearest flower? they
reaching nothing.
escape my mind
Yet i must admit there is a simple answer. to this...
strangely ever so often there is a euphoric infatuation held within a single droplet of dew atop a petal of blue waiting to reach your soul... and i assure this my flower is true..
even then I still say: "linked hearts however close differ, yours is undoubtedly vibrant it sing songs of life, mine however is vividly dull it only speaks poems of gloom"
for you see my darling, under moonlight sheets, atop the clouds making my bed, next to the cliff of no defeat, behind those stairs, you so little speak the puzzle of my existence hid, and with it, it took away the keys to my heart, I no longer can close it thus it hangs open for all to see.
as the arcane saying goes: "Strange sights quench the bearers of light, thine eyes however cure the keepers of darkness". little did you know i wrote this for you.
A canvas of nature held under the sun, waiting for the light I look at you with my broken sight, you climb the stairs leaving this existence of dreams, you become the one to hold my heart.
The one in charge often judges me "you once said: "structuring reality around an ancient historic grief, expect humanity to ruin beauty, give up all hope...". Then you glimpsed those eyes and now look at you." he does however have a point.
the insomniac usually shouts in delusions: "Migrate poetry into a prosaic reservation, maintain a solid clarity of stoicism, become the muse to the lost ages, nonsense is delicious, a man falls once and doesn't seem to stop.
creeping disillusionment found upon a stairway to reality, basking in forbidden beauty, comes the fool within resisting humanity, beginning to look for eyes of greatness, losing strength, finding souls of bygone seasons, falling in the trap called joy.
strong bonds driven to madness over the tiniest thorn, finalising the embodiment of romanticism, becoming a muse for muses, reliving a relic persona, mimicking the side character in the crowd, shining light upon the coffeestained eyes, losing all thoughts of coherence, drip drip drip goes the faucet of tears."
his sleep-deprivation-induced nonsense is often factual, however my dearest flower pay him no attention, he's trying his best.
thus this comes to conclusion , I'll leave all inclusion , I'll become seclusion, to capture the essence of life's lessons one must become intense , live life without sense and cause no absence.