Mortem | 8. Paint My Dreams




 Paint My Dreams

Paint my dreams,

Sit in front of me and be

the very view my canvas kindly

requests me to fulfill it with.

Be the reason my paint,

although cannot fill the tube once

I start spreading my brush,

feels joyful of dying on your sight

for dying to immortalize you is

of the highest honor.

Be the reason that when I feel

the warmth on my pillow,

it is because you spread it

and embraced us all;

My face, my hands, my heart.

Fill the corners of my mind

with your voice and let me

turn it into an echo of such

passion that never fades within.

Be my eyes and see what I see

for you to see your own charm

is the only means to realize

how lucky my dreams are.

To contain you with such words

is cruelty for no existence on Earth

can reflect the spark that you lit.

Life is a canvas, you and your colors,

when my heart knocked on your door,

sprayed themselves on my life.

Even now, I live through the layers

of beauty, of such a smile, of such a voice.

Be the warmth spread by the beacon

hid beneath the snow, now lighting

our ways and meeting us both.

Be the rose with no stem, falling down

with its beautiful petals, you alone

would still turn my balcony

into a garden of joy for it is you.

Be the reason that my poetry

finds it journey through the holes

of darkness to the unending tunnel

of emotions and passion that

surrounds us both.

Don’t be the love that is reminiscent

of meadows, supernova, and the cherry blossoms.

To be a reminiscent is to be forgotten,

For that, you are alive in my verse and in my heart.

Be the reason the sky turns pink, yes,

Even the most imaginary can become real

for after witnessing you, I span the fortune’s wheel.

I remember touching, I remember talking, so 

you must be real, awakening below.

Be the light that my curtains invite

and wake me up from my dream to end the night.


Day 8, July 2 (actually 1), 2023

Mors vincit omnia.

Everyone scratches some words into the walls of their heart when they are young.


What turns us into poets is the fact that we keep writing.

Even in death.

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