The poet act on impulsion, Outside of his nest, Beauty struck him, like the warm freeze, Such jewels are tears, Rolling upon his lips, Soon, to be turn to ink, To stained the page, Wondering the essence, Who guide his hands, And tarnish light to shadows? Where is the sun, Where the child once enjoyed? Tonight lost in the deep night…

grief has took over bliss, Pains has robbed the ecstasy from his eyes, Cripple blind man, Begging through words, To let him experience again the innocence, The purity of the morning dews, Flirting through his fingers, water kisses.

The poet act on impulsion, When the rage of the child erupt, No remorse control or regrets, Just a vacant grave, to jump and hide his shame, in such hollow worthlessness!

Falling, faster and faster, Light slowly become deem, No stars, no moon, no sun, Silence become gold to the broken soul, Where I go there is no an angels or god, Turning into a ball of fire, ashes to ashes.


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