To own you,
was my fault. I wanted you flawlessly,
to choose, who lives
and who walks away.

Trying to discover
pure truth, the whole truth―
nothing but complete.

You start groping
for eternal globes, like Mars,
burning hot, but far away.

An aesthetic oneself, searching a duplicate.

The suffering of useless
phrases hurts. Your eyes squint,
wanting to tell, but don't betray.

Who will succeed
awakening the sovereignty of a wayward bard?
Who will pull down the moon
from the black sky?