I can say.

I am sad
retired
torn to pieces
shriveled up

my heart
tells
I hardly have
scope

vocabulary of
defeatist

what else
I can say. 

at your heart.

Love probably I told you writing a poem is not an easy task or say happening around. It takes millions of factors to be steered at and another equal undefined arrays of life to be threaded at. I am making another such hope ful event for you may you some day get nerves to come :

when I serf
hard
soft is the way

sky asks me
I find
a little

I leave the sky
may be
it too haughty

I search
may be
not known

I search again

to find

what lies

at your heart 

I ask daffodils.

In my school
I read of William Wordsworth
his daffodils

may it s smiling
some where
horizon if beautiful

it suddenly asks
what went

I take a flash back
was it really

may be
snakes
scorpions
it were in infancy

may be
someone
took a shield

is it shield
lost with winds

I ask daffodils  

where I can

you see love poems are written for a kaleidoscopic perfectionist life. Its primarily where section of persons are not equipped to read and understand the oceanic wealth and they tend pollute further such an infinite serene creations and related ones.


when evening comes
I have dust dusk dawn

of the yore
present

fragrance comes
it spreads
what it could have

storms of vacuum
it fails little

time has
what
it can't tell

sometime
I make
sense

mostly
I remain

ghosts
of thoughts
oblivion

some written

other not

stare at
where I can 

what I can't

cobwebs of memory lanes
threads speaking
to themselves

it s lost world
may be
past in stoic

I see dhalias
at their blossom

is blossom
may be a heart
nerves of

I recluse

may be
dhalias at heart

tell
what I can't

sea saw.

sea saw
I have stood
at my heart

I touch it
sometimes ask

what brings you
so close

may you not be

cruel
harsh
crunch

it reverberates

sea saw