Moonless Summer Night

Yellow,
The colour of golden corns,
The moon was so that day.
Did it signify madness?
Madness of my love for you?

Where dreamy clouds doth swirl prettily,
I pranced and played…
And my tiny delicate feet,
The roughness of ground it doesn’t touch.
Ah…bliss and oblivion…
But wait!
My eyes are atrophied,
I can’t see clearly…
In this self-created surreal dream,
You filter in and out unfalteringly,
Obscured by mysterious fleeting mists,
You so very often are.

I sense your presence,
But where are you really?
I’m in awe of your features,
But they’re mostly transparent.
I wanna learn your warmth,
Yet you shy away with the grace of a dancer.
I desire to touch you,
Yet my fingers traced only skeins of clouds.

Are you real?
Do you not answer me?
Maybe…
Just maybe…
You’re only fragments of my imagination,
Which, will dissipate like tender breaths…
On a hot moonless summer night.

Going Willingly Into The Grips Of Death

Unbeknown - ice cold your finger trailing
Tracing a shiver down my rigid spine
You eyes lock, and there's no key
You heart buried under hardened snow.

A portrait's stillness you assume always
Beautiful to behold; intriguing to watch
Sculptured ice shrouded in unparalleled loveliness
Will not somebody shatter you one day?

You move about in utter grace - unmatched
By even prima ballerinas of Swan Lake
Hungry hands reach out to touch you, grab you
You smile... but it does not reach your eyes.

A moment of warmth and you pranced about
Utilizing your powerful but 'mainly for display' limbs
Your involuntary smile in such a moment
Melted every memory of your primordial iciness.

Who could have thought you could look so endearing?
You smile as if you don't intend to
You, who control yourself so superbly
Could not do so at the given moment.

The disturbed tomb of the black bird has been restored
You moved back into your previous position
Ice cold fingers tracing my rigid spine
Securing a willing victim in an icy death grip.