Dearest lover, your hair of phantasms to the winds shiver,
vitality is of the words corrupt, within those strands shimmer,
all abomination yet I strive still and dangle,
sharpened are my teeth to which in your ebony vines bit perfect an angle.
Dearest lover, your visage is of no other,
convolute it is with reverence to the malady you never gather.
Oh light! Oh, reflection divine! Upon those pallor cheeks fell ignoble,
Paper without writings, a sea without water, — it is you in ways supple.
Dearest lover, those eyes that shamed the stars in their glitter,
carries but the most recognizable dull resting at the heavens bitter.
What madness! In those orbs are witnessed replaying,
the most horrible and haunting of sights to death the society is paying.
Dearest lover, your proboscis of golden stone breathes not,
swayed in a fine foible bridge of ignorance and rot.
Tell and confess, sure do, love,
of all the scent lies have sent to us like doves.
Dearest lover, your hands of garden divine’s a scorn.
Beauty, distaste, abomination,— all but holds the fangs of stupidity forlorn.
To you is the will and the command,
all to which I, with much contempt, award with a reprimand.
Dearest lover, your being of iniquity sublime,
to the horizon that stretches far beyond seas, a crime.
And I thirst! My throat a desert blest,
My dearest lover, my enemy, this piece to you a jest.
It’s hard to forget the memories that hold felicity in them. But as much as I want to remember them and feel the same happiness again, the pain too, like a villain in many movies, comes to me and endeavours me to feel it.
Credits to the owner of the picture used: Pako Quijada
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