A self-reflection

sunset at eight 
sunset at eight
brings enchanting golden light;
watching fate as it seeds
Cupid’s breath for the night.

the cicadas soothing buzz
with tranquility’s serene sea,
with rose radiance of clouds as 
soft as the brushstroke of da vinci.

the touch of the fingertips
like a stroke of an old painting;
the colour of love washing over you
with sensation and opaque beauty.

what is beauty?
being impassioned by life?;
the breeze of summer making your heartbeat high; ?
when a hummingbird feeds from lavender lupines?;
or the sinking of the heart at the speckle of stardust
in one’s eyes;
the kiss from a mother when a child cries…;

amongst the doves at dawn,
where lovers thrive,
beauty is sunset at eight,
in glimmering golden light.
- n.i

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gushes of water
flooding the streets,
an unceasing moment where
there's nowhere to flee.

like a lonely sailor
in a cyclical wave,
feeling the water rise up
in my lungs
and then over my face.
- n.i
the lonely stream
black-stained tears stain her pretty pale face
running down her pretty blushed-cheeks
like dead-watered creeks
with a ghostly haze.

no more rainbow rings as
the sun sink in the horizon
red robins no longer sing...
as the autumn wind hushes
to silence.

the sky cries rain
while grey clouds clash
and the flowers wither in pain
from the surge of the storm's lash.

dead fish, she finds, with bulgy eyes
like her puffy and desperate cries.
- n.i
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your touch
your touch on my soul
is like a hidden shadow -
a cold, heartless sin,
shading the flowers in the meadow.

you brush my hair
only to harvest my daisies,
you take them bare
but never remember to water them.

your touch on my soul
is like ice that never melts -
a bitter pain
that never sweats.
- n.i

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