Where Else My Poetry Falls

when your skin felt my lips, it's rhythmic pressure, which holds our ancient link, I felt the universe in my head, in the bed, I saw a million stars and some unknown galaxies, I'm not sure is it an obvious dream, you know the truth you felt the same, only one disparity of reality, what else you saw in the dream? Because you were the creator of such heating obsession.

when your land drops its pride, and gives it to the wilderness, buried summer leaves will haunt, in every cold place where you rest. as you remember the dreams and those smiles in every flower, will be gloomed, and you'll be doomed, the hell you seek will start to seek you. rain will fall before the autumn, kindness in your eyes will wither out, the swamp will swallow your legs, and you never feel what was eating you. devil's trumpets will grow wildly, as a sign of your mournful death. if it blossoms in fortune spring, I will adorn your grave with its decayed flowers. But before you die, I have something to reveal. "The devil is never real but I am"

Unlike the majestic way of disguising things, I can reveal all my secrets through a song. same as the humming of a  bird to its mate, or piping of a bee to a flower yet to be bloomed. if I could have the lyre of that great healer, the god of music and light, let him shine upon me, through all my plague and darkness, so I can create a new melodious way to suffer alone. if you hear me when I sing that dirge, I may be upon the top of my lungs, mixing all the griefs with all the air I can fill in. I will try to be aloud, I want them to hear this. this song, about the death of an innocent dreamer, who dreamed beyond their imagination, to hide the truths from his other self, like the wind which's stuck between Mountains. he died for nothing but for pain.

Inked by a sea, which was formed before my birth, maybe it's the dark blood of an unknown bird. Scars never felt real, like the scars I held by myself, but it has the power to enhance what's real and unreal. It will appear, when I call upon for the wisdom and darkness, in every scars like the stars of a deep dark night. Soon I will realize, what are the reasons for living and for dying, and also the reasons for loving and being loved. They cannot control, the weather, the storms, and the rain, So my emotions and thoughts. If they do, what should I do to myself, to avoid all the consequences I'm guilty of. It is too easy, to cut the wrist and unleash the red river, like the flow of unhappiness to the sea of misery. But in other hand, I hold the cup which never ever fills, and I'm searching honey drops in decayed flowers. I might be a sinner, in my dreams I slayed a thousand thoughts, about the things which they don't want to feel. ...

dilemmas in the delusional Lilies, a hesitation, whether or not, do they've to fall after the honey drops dry or before this night fall,  or before this winter's cry. warm touch by the summer wind, an impossible dream to catch, before it perish, all these decayed dreams, in the sorrow of forgetful snow. they'll create an empathy to carve love, out of each human heart with thier everlasting toxic fragrance, before they feel the last coldness of night. after the fall of the broken Lilies, where you find your heart?