The Fog of Pain
You told me not to worry. As many speakers would be along the way, entering through the different doors, could tell us about the stars’ songs, theories, and critical turns. But, do you know, in the rain-wet afternoon, among the full house audience, I was absent? You could not attend, as you illustrated the root’s color during your busy schedule. And I? I searched the past, those familiar faces, succulent childhood, and some shy dreams in the songs’ lyrics.
The evening has been floated on my mind’s city, with the whispering gesture. In the midst of depression, I wish to travel on the moonlit night to somewhere distant throwing Imperialism or Postmodernism away, to be a bit lonely, to enjoy some personal time.
However, you remain sitting there before your reading table and Derrida’s Deconstruction in your hand. No speaker, no audience, only the fog of pain exists in this night. Can you tell a story on a different day, on a different morning?
Lamppost
Getting withered by the fog in the winter noon, I keep my eyes to the distant. Is there heavy rain flowing from your yard? The signals, one after another, are going far away. If the surroundings are dense with fog sheet, how can I cross such far?
Rather, I continue reading the page slowly. Only the lamppost counts how much dissolution time has been swayed by through this border. That history becomes very flexible when you meet. Who wants to be an anchorite being accompanied by such the Rose?
Let’s dive into the fantastic dark, secret deep, embellished with beauty and love.
Night’s Dew
Time has no enemy, no friend either. When the dusk shadow point disappears, I embrace you, the holy night. Let’s enjoy our conjugal affair amid the flowing period being mesmerized with elastic beauty. Then, on your lap with the earnest solitude and dew fragrance, I will be drunk.
Silent Dialogue
I keep searching the lost address among some unknown colors. The happy pain is nothing but the love’s illustration. The long night is silent dialogue. The dual imitation of sweet love is on. The moaning of our souls has been vibrated in the harmonious sound. Finally, the failed echo of flawless conspiracy!
The Final Evening
I am no more in the mundane world. My eyelids, after tiredness, takes infinite rest with extreme peace. None noticed that I only looked at you in the very end of the last afternoon’s falling light. The memories’ postmortem exists with the sigh procession at your yard. Your face and mask fall apart through the mournful lamentation. The pain of lost is on your eyes’ tear. No dew is spotted on mother’s and your eyes. Only nature can understand the Tsunami that flows in on your minds concealment the surprised terminologies that reflected in your motionless, nipple eyes. And no one else can comprehend such, none.
