Pale as death,
as a puddle of water
it stalked his
sharply beating heart,
rain wasn't a sound,
twas artificial
horribly counterfeit of boredom
graceful lips parted dangerously
trembling fingers
the clock, a deep tropical burn
that idiotically smashed
the desperate physical shadow
unhappy eyes and calmness,
an immediate alarm,
a miserable mistake,
his nervous circuit pouring,
took the heart out
while the sun shone again,
like the murder of their voices,
gusts of emotions smeared with tears
he flowed twinkle-bells of sunshine,
smiled ecstatically,
her beauty, it was splendid.
For her,
panic of war was an appropriate drug
she cried alone
night and day
enchanted
admiring gardens
the bird voices concealed breathlessly silent
ghostly laughter,
vivid flowers,
well-loved eyes,
an astounding presence of pure delight
he dreamt the soft rich,
strained
sound
stormily,
beautifully, she sobbed.
Mid-summer flowers
burn all night,
significant as a star
in the pale moonlight.
moon of enchanted objects
darkness attracted family,
i adore it, she whispered.
lit a cigarette from a trembling match,
gleaming
her electric excitement
happiness,
but dreamt of his illusion,
bright, drifted,
while it was but
a ghostly heart
a rush of emotion
and a deathless piece of art.
