I am but a man of history,
Holding on to things which are now lost.
Lost not in time,
lost only because it doesn’t exist.
Did not, will not. Created but dead.
Moments I see before my eyes,
Seen at best when I don’t look and I don’t mind.
Tears are liquid of extremes, indeed
And you are brimming with mine.
If I lament for the idea,
Or if I do for you,
What shall happen but me creating another you.
The walls will ignite
When I drag myself down.
And the nights will stab and stab until
Its long hours be done.
For someone; does he know me?
Yet, at the moment, is worth a poem.
A romance oblivious of everything;
Of liberty to break a poet.