And the Marksman said,

“Aim for the heart, and not for the brow,

A punctured heart always heals somehow.”

Through perjury

Through injury

The sting of treason

Rotates seasons.






Like our pearlescent, gleaming eyes.


From delight, by a selfless surprise.


Like the dew from an overnight rainfall


In an instant, from an unwanted goodbye.

Vivid Gradients

Temptation red as Carmine

Tears as thick as cerulean

And here lies I shedding to your core

Vivid gradients expressing

What I need is more.

Such a strange contravene

What dwells inside never dares to be seen

Mellow yellow daydreams remind me of the laughter

But vivid gradients expressing

What I yearn for is thereafter.

Melancholy rests on mahogany busts

And just like brights, present turns to rust

How a beating flame disintegrates from the folds of my clutch

Vivid gradients fade

And submit to touch.

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Feels like someone’s behind me

But just ghosts of former dignitaries

Sporadic reminders

That too much I nurture my memories.

An Answer to my Prayers

Never been much of a believer

The winter ends when it decides so

Star-crossed fallacies in my bed head

My godless heart is a silent wanderer.

My pleading dreams are at times unholy

When I lack a overseer to put me in place

I fantasize the rush of enrapturing pain

How addicting it is, then ends so abruptly.

What I yearn is not destined for return

A spark of inhibition is of less concern

Than temptations of ballads beyond the bed

The flames by my spirit ignite the brightest burn.


The perforations of my being

Are much too small to be seen

For only those who are most keen

Can sense the intricacies worth freeing.

An underbrush of intuition

Propelled by superstition

And if it’s so just, to be understood

These holes, to remain everlasting

What else is there for which to dig?


The moss turns its course the other direction

A gust of change begins a striking inception

And though I am not one for posing perception

I can provide you with  honorable mention.

Now too little do our hearts pay attention

To the purity of  raw imperfection

Born to believe it as misconception

But in truth it’s degrees of affection.

A wounded heart, seeks warmth, attention

A slain heart just wants a reflection

Though I am not one to instill position,

Darkness is intimacy just on a mission.




What’s an embodiment without a picture

A concoction with no mixture

A pitch with no projecture

A lesson without a lecture?

Rhetorics are not straight-answered

But imperfections are substandard

Why the details are the most mattered

Are unknown, since times have shattered.

For memories are mere reminders

That all souls are survivors

Sometimes dark auras are guiders

And twilights are blinders.




Time Freezes Selves

The beasts fulfill my head once again

From once hidden under my bed

But fade away as my memories bloom

As I fear more of the living,

And reminisce upon the dead.

But what I miss the most

Was what there was.

Stuck in time, we yearn the momentous.

To replay the cataclysmic mistake

That built dimensions of who we are

How love, pain, refrain,

Fuels, suddenly breaks.

But what I miss the most

Was what there was.

Rather than what was shared,

Time freezes selves.

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