When The Leaves May Fall

When the leaves may softly fall,
gently like the rain that
I see you standing in,
the face of ever changing beauty,
standing alone in a garden of grey,
for as the wind sweeps your voice,
in the curling tails of mistrals bending forth
thick walls of nothing facing you,
as nature stands beside you calmly,
For it was not even I,who loves you much more,
who slept with the mind open and dreaming eternities;
there is an infinity that tries to flee,
as I compare love and its ocean of madness,
do I compare love to a single kiss.
But when the leaves may fall,
I will find love under summer's spells,
for those thrills of life and light have not found me yet,
for I have been painting many sad faces in the sand,
but all were mine that turned in the making,
of all the expressions that defined the sour truth,
I finally saw the meaning of having absolutely nothing,
like barren mountains bearing each other,
become the reasons of a life worth living.
I see the future of thy nature,
it's course is beautiful and cold,
But I see thy reflection closely,
thou art the shade of sweet calypso growing old.

The Advantage

How clueless he is,this true man of perfection,
for he is known as the man lost of his perception,
How mislead he has become in his perfection,
for he has lost the ultimate advantage;
The ideal advantage is suited to consume reason,
and yet,remains as the very source of logic.
He pounds at the door of knowledge,
knowing fully well that none would answer,
and the doors are locked from the inside,
but over there,the windows are left open,and,
He can now only feel like a thief.
Such is the nature of that perfection,
that deceit with grace,and yet a man still.
For his eyes,ears and that rapid devils tongue,
too quick to break the silence,
for not so long ago,these once primates knew
of a silence,that of a different kind,
one that fully understands the powers of uncertainty,
one that knows fear from the heavy gloat of hungry death,
one that knows the advantage from perfection,
without the advantage,we are helpless,
simply just the mindless eyes of dark corridors,
for such a being of selfish decision,
as the true poet must be
to discover his own advantage over the charming muse.

Now,let us return to the ideal of perfect man,
But oh!where has he fled?
But over there,i see him fleeing across the horizon,
holding his perfect face in the light of shame.