When would this vagabondage end?
Where, my friend,
would the ocean start?
When would these bruises of blossoms
mend?
You, the little candle of charm,
abolished in the wind of harms.
You,
wingless and blind,
a scarecrow
with no arms
to guard your farm of enchantment and charm.
Now I am mourning you.
I have nothing but a quest,
to enshrine your nostalgia,
the psychalgia
of holding onto your heart beating zest,
still pulsating
on the hollow between my breasts,
your cosy hideaway on my chest,
where the rest of the world
is
only
an empty nest.
You tended to show me your heart,
in the taunt of your chest wide open
and torn apart.
You tended to show me
innocence is forever damned,
the doors of mercy always
is slammed,
incautious in circle
of blatant fangs,
in strokes of unrelenting whangs,
in sways of these serrated swords,
this barbwire, this callous cord,
this death row that
we
all are
aboard.
======
It is to my little quail for his harsh destiny. First was slammed between doors, by kids, though survived (hardly) but went blind and clumsy. Then few month later was attacked by friendly cats who tortured him for hours, while I was out, and left his half eaten dead body in front of window. Every remaining part of his body was chewed except his heart, laying intact on the floor.
