Kiss me…before the war erupts…

Every time I write something, I hope, whoever reads it gets to indulge in the meaning of every word to get a sense of what stands behind the obvious. But in this particular post,  I am going to explicitly ask you to go beyond the obvious. Try to feel it. Read it. And let go.

That war, fire, inside...
That war, fire, inside…

 

Kiss me before the war erupts

Or burry me; martyr to my passion.

I used to walk in the funerals of poems,

And used to see them, war martyrs.

I used to see the words dead.

I put down my ink, my bloom, and my pen

But I never asked, was it war or was it simply death.

But I have always wondered if down his eyes,

Streamed a tear of sadness, and grief.

He’s a draught; his beats are silenced and his strings are parched

And his words are sheltered in a world of silence.

He hears our wonders, and smiles our tears,

When we say that he is one of the martyrs,

But he’s only living his first moments of death.

Farwell, adieu, sayonara…goodbye,

Until I meet your memory, goodbye.

I leave you the fervor of my words

The memory of my whispers and chords.

I leave you my soul, your most luscious enemy,

And my most vicious mystery, and even more.

I leave you the illusion of life.

I leave you forsaken with the illusion of being, and words.

I leave you with the delusion of air, sensations, people, and traits.

I can see you, now. When you’re just asleep.

Oh, I see you, now…

 

So, Kiss me before the war erupts

Or burry me; martyr to my passion.

 

Solo...
Solo…
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