Writing a Soul

The heaven has finally settled from what has left of the world. The soil, for another time, was yet again baptized. It was a lovely scent. The aroma of poetry. The fervent tap of sadness, knocking upon my window. The choir, serenading my dying thoughts as they lay their requiem on the earthen beds of soils. The tumult earth went howling, doused with so much joy from what seemed to be the heaven's weep, for it seemed that the night conceals so much of the evening sky ---the moon. Then, there were two of us. Two unheard souls cowering in our flesh, sharing heat within  the borders of our embrace. It was like an evening and our hearts conversing amid the stage play of fire in the hearth.

Then you asked. You asked of the many moons that had long since gone. You seek of nights that had relive so much of our innocence --- a stranger seeking refuge to our love. I do not know. I was lost to the foreign tone of your voice. A wolf alienated from its pack and longing for the humble lullaby of the moonlight. 

Everything was pulsating. Palpitating. Throbbing. There was a moment of silence. A sudden stop of the earth's rotation and I was adhered to another dimensional abode that separates us. I can hear the silence protesting for its sanity that has been imprisoned to the dampen tundra cell of madness. I was deviated from all my senses yet drowned to the surging tides of fear, soaking me to the deepest trenches where all sin must be hidden.

The moment terrorized my soul. You asked me of the many moons that we lost about a year ago. I do not believe of the love monologues whom that created us. It was a drop of paradox. Yet right now, I am unearthing all the buried beating within the graves of my heart.

Where have all the moons went? I guess it was lost together with the torn forgotten poems which eventually you told me about it. I can still remember the time when I tore the two solely poems that I had written about you.  I am not a poet. I am not a writer. You were the author of my dexterity, pirouetting with my poems, and a black hole sucking out all the verbal weeps and light residing my skin. 

I promised many moons ago of the last poem I was writing about you. Yet everyday is a thousand of rhymes screaming about you that I was leashing to the chains of pains that have had caged my soul from the rest of the world. And you are my world.

Where have all the moon went? To the truth of false love tale you told I had buried far below the ground. Yet I was the soil in which you are enwomb. I want to write about you, molding your soul within the very tip of my pen. Take another step with you to this center stage of the paper theater in which I had been acting not as the prince but as the storyteller narrating your wonders to the world. 

It has been a long time. And I long for the many many moons that had long since passed. It was yesterday, since I began loving you. Yet it was lost. But I have always found grave within the bound of your embrace where all our lost dreams lying, like an infant to a moth

I want to write you again.