Sunday, April 3, 2016

The Misty Sufferance of His Poetic Soul:
His words are like tinted baby's breath and he smells like whisper...he was with her as she closed her eyes, as she breathe in... but she cannot touch him..she cannot feel him... she doesn't even know whether he exists or not... except one night...That night he wrote hundreds of mumbling poetry under her skin, braid her hair with one of them and told her to look at that point in the sky where the dark meets the light...and then his shadow blasted into thousands of blue birds... fluttering muttering thousand lives...

The Witchy Enjoyment of Her Mischief-Making:
Her smile is like poisoned paintings and she gazed like blood on an ice skating rink...she was with him as he opened his eyes, as he breathe out...whenever he wished, he could touch her, he could feel her very essence...so he was disgusted by her eerie existence....except that last night...that vaporous starless night she created constellations inside his vein, universe in his eyes and told him to close his eyes until he sense her no more... and then her soul shattered into deathless eyelashes...and the clouds shifted and flooded from his eyes, harmonized into the void like twinkling blinking infinite bubbles...