Untamed

3

Altitude

I'll make a pretty roof with wild wisteria growths 
Sun burnt the grasses and the world; my moon stands in that shed
Young hearts don't hide hysteria or arrogance
I look up, look in the eyes with every oncoming phrase 
Half hearted gardenias, I'll sow them over the miles and miles of your moonlit shore
Sunshine over iceberg, that's my muse for life, tomorrow and evermore
But it’s me fooling, naïve to feel your heart
And I wondered once again, what did you think before a moment passed?

They posses high walls, sharp peaks and long carpets
Bright shade Lapis lazulis hang from their brocade threads
Yet, my distant icy river, frozen in ascetic stance
Doesn't bother with a smile or even with a proper glance
Formal nods, and formal bows
Formal consonants, formal vowels
Right when your pacific eyes lie in a zen
I shall cast a peony from my garden at your strictly constricted rein
Would you pick it up? Will you hold it in your feverish chest?
You picked it up, held it in your chest
A tender peony, fully bloomed, in warmth of skin and soul,
I almost felt it here.

But years passed in shattered coldness, dragging dark-patched rhetorics over my being,
I burrowed deep in the red dirt and ashes,
Yet, scorns and scars find their way
No requiem was sung, no candle for me,
Only one heart moist in a perennial empathy, beat without me, believing
“If I can breathe, you are returning.”
How could I not?

If you are breathing, I will return.
The faint melody, I hear,
Your fingers on the strings have taken my name for days on end
And then, 
I open my eyes
Here, you are standing under the pretty roof of wisteria, once I made
Holding a flower, dried in time, darkened, but a tinge of pink still lingering like the last trace of an old, forsaken spring
Aged but not forgotten,
My moon shines through the halo
It's not an obscure dream 
No need for a dream, clarity sooths the open cuts
Their facts and figures weather and fade
Eyes closed I breathe
The warmth you radiate fuels my core
Your beauty fuels my flute
It's a piece of relic of yester-birth that I fondly play, I'm a relic too.
In the end, no one stayed, the faces I doted upon
Under this frail azure only you stand beside me,
The hand gently rubs my back.
Fingers do fit.
I see in your eyes a world of ‘holding onto’, ‘never leaving’ and ‘never letting go’
And there's nothing else to see, feel, say.

(Thanks for waiting.
Thanks for loving me.)