thinking of you, part 3

how foolish am i?
to let myself become infatuated
by a shadow and a phantom!

it is not the song of the seraph
that keeps me afloat.

it is not the scent of the seraph
that comforts me.

it is not the beauty of the seraph
that eases my woes.

rather,
it is the silent rejection of
everything i cannot have
that forms the basis of
my sin. your disregard.

and
it is the knowledge and reassurance
of the impossible that aids
my acceptance. your passing.

but
it is the wind that lifts
me. not you.

your hand is not mine to hold.

and yet, forever i'll remain,
thinking of you.

thinking of you, part 2

my very marrow trembles with delight
at the intoxicating sight of you and
your presence. my apprehension.

the sweetest scent from memory
and thought pervades my being:
your aroma. my delight.

the greatest symphony
is mere nothing compared to
your melody. my lament.

the passing troubles of this life
fade when i contemplate
your beauty. my inadequacy.

one day i'll fly.
one day i'll jump
and spread my wings
with a seraph by my side.

thinking of you

a seraph descends from the heavens
and embraces the boy
with the brittle smile.

an emotionally-torn youth
with hopes and dreams and a future
as vague as the seraph’s presence.

fleetingly they encounter:
always a brief glance,
and yet, their eyes never meet.

the seraph’s name,
always a feeble whisper
upon the breath of the boy,
and yet, is naught but taboo.

his heart races—
always a major change
to the inexperienced spirit of the boy.
he’s suddenly hopeful,
and yet, unnoticed by the stars.

if only angels were demons!
for then the boy would be
released from the seraph.

victory rose

like tuning before a symphony
is the sweet smell of fall.

time changes many things;
yet its scent remains.

how often do i long and wait
to enjoy such subtle aroma!

its advent proclaims the cold-
a harbinger of tribulation.

yet, for some, its soft embrace
is just a brief sigh before
the respite of the pearl sea.

four seasons

how sad is the bud that never blooms!
his lot was no less than the grandest tree.

but sadder yet is the green sapling
that meets its end in summer's heat.

yet expected, in autumn,
is a pile of old leaves.

as always, winter's cold unfeeling
begins the process anew.