The art… it’s never perfect.
Rather ethereal, and full of heart.
And you are the art
that I was craving
on the rose-laden shore.
I would weave the stars
into my letters
to close this distance,
if you would be willing
to read mine.
I would bleed into my parchment
until my heart is sure
it has no blood left,
if you would be willing
to take a look.
I can’t offer you eternity —
I’m a mortal,
bound to drop cold and dead.
Therefore,
I’ll offer you my poems,
for they are all that thrive
within my existence.
~ ever your poet beyond the last pages .
