LOST.

Tinged with melancholy,
satisfacted for my colapse,
driving to an unorthodox place,
with hands on the weel,
not a ring on 'em,
just yellow fellowship of nicotine,
wishing to have a sacred
reason to cry for.
Morality is not immanent in a man,
nor in a woman,
not as long as we have ugly conscience,
and passions that present us
warmth,qualms and guilts,
and mystery.
Not as long as we're thinking of one name
while entering another.
I am a fiddler,
with all its meanings,
and let that echo in the cave
of your mind.

Every Last Day.

You open the door of your home,
you step in,
and its so empty
you can hear the regrets echoing in every corner.
You cant fight lonelyness now,
God is picking on your wounds
and Death wont gift himself to you.
You lie to bed
and bright memories laugh at your mind
while missed bright faces
choke and burn your heart.
You've once kissed the cheek of a tiger
but now thunders scare you
and your wife died three days ago
and that alone
is worth of your jealusy.
You sleep praying
to never wake up again.