He never broke my heart. He only turned it into a compass that always point me back to him.- Clement Von Radics.
I want to tell her of how her allure ensnares.
Speak of how I yearn for her.
All I do is slap her with a stare that hordes of sonnets.
I’ll hold onto my semblance,
Not that it will change a thing,
Just that it’s the only way I know how
And conjuring phrases in the face of love is daunting
(That’s the fool love has made out of me)
And when I’m done,
I’ll beseech her in the posture of innocence.
In the clasp of my lips
Lie words that are abound with frissons.
How else do I explain these freckles on my soul.
I want to sculpt her lips,
All I do is to marry mine to hers eclectically.
No words can tower over such randomness and artistry.
In them I lick on chocolates
Whose precise flavour I can not decipher.
And if she dares leave me,
I’d want to be granted speech,
To narrate of how I lived in her world.
She’d want to know if I’ll ever leave her side.
All I did was to enfold her in the castle of my arms.
Arms that are sewn with tears as anaesthesia.
When oppressors shackles are smelts from iron
Hers are made from the ooze of sweat.
In her therapy she holds me in a bout,
Pitting my soul and mind-
An even wrestle that harmonizes our hearts
And with the concerto that out bodies dance to.
They whisper, I love you,
Along the trenches of my spine.
Those are the only scars I yearn for.
I don’t know if I’ll get bored,
All I know is that I’ll be here,
For in the spectrum of poets
Only the sands of time grow dull
And love is a dance of the stars.
When the contours of time morph
I’ll still be here, a little broken though.
Our battered hearts will still be where
The rise of laughter clasps with pangs of angst.
In a dance, the urge to alter rhythm is overwhelming
And in solace we still walk back from our wanders.
In respite, through a tempest,
I’ll unbandage from her temple
With the certainty that it’s mine forevermore.
You knew I was the type that embodied chastity,
And you still fed me your religion.
Not that it wasn’t fun!
The drowning spell you cast on me
It’s far much enchanting than the Sunday masses.
I am awed at how you can arm twist love
To join you into your clumsy thoughts.
And this can’t be undone,
It would be in vain to align your scrawly self.
Just give me the austerity of the paint
That pins me on your bed.
And for the reminiscing,
Do etch on me a tattoo
For in the pain of your subliminal whispers,
I’ve met a witch of a seraph.