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Poem

Whom about should I write tonight?
The warrior, the painter or the lover?
It is but a gust of wind
That love is, it will blow away
The old set of eyes, turned weary
And replace a sparkling blue nascent waterfall.
How many hands do I have to feel?
Or let them feel
The crests of my darkest desire…
They don’t know the shears I have,
Robbed of touch and comprehension,
Men will pull out their bleeding, blunt hands
And whine for the softness which took away their fingers.

Whom about should I write tonight?
There is but a certain sadness in the sky,
All the stars I have known,
Liked my darkness because it made them shine brighter,
Drops of blood on a haywire pack of snow
I changed my colour from pure white 
To a shade of pretended pinkish glee,
In my maze, the drops were lost,
And like an inviting bed 
To lovers trapped in an unbroken room,
I wait for blood to drop on me again.

I’m sorry my love,
I couldn’t write about you,
You are but the obscuring fog in a tired dawn,
Disappearing in my morning sun.

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