Damien’s Confessions II - To thyself

She’s a carved souvenir,
An idle breath to adore her scent….
A frigid woolen sheer,
She’s tragedy with no bitter end…

An illustration with no meaning,
A colour without a shade…
Life’s immerged seeding,
She’s a book that wrote a page…

She’s movements in friction,
The vowel in that maze….
She’s a novel with a fiction,
A book without a page…

She’s dictionary in a spelling,
A synonym in an empty page…
What gives this heart a swelling?
Love’s just a pending wage…

Damien’s confessions – A letter to Iris

Why do these eyes sink?
When you sing to the sky…
Why do you yearn for wings?
When I say I cannot fly…

Why does your hair sway?
When the wind sings a rhyme…
Why does this heart pain?
When tulips just don’t cry…

Why does your lip speak riddles?
When I wish to name them mine…
Why does your breath feel brittle?
Have I drenched myself in wine…?

Why do your arms not move?
Are mine too cold to give…
What have I to prove?
You’re all I have to live…

Oh! The queen of my throne!
I’ve roses but you bring me thorns…
Told you tulips don’t groan…
But your garden bloom spawns…