“The infinite ceiling of my dainty delicate dreams makes me see the wise world where my heart belongs.”

A narrative told in the infinite galaxy of colors that melt into white and, brushstrokes bourne upon land who are titled ‘human beings’.

Nothing was trying to hurt me, except my own thoughts, which felt like needles, trying to stitch tears within my eyes.

Time stops for the heart to tick-tock!

Petals and thorns grew hand in hand, realizing themselves, the oneness in them didn’t seem afar!

Santa sobs recalling December’s decor, navigating joys volcano, overcoming dawns of insomnia, waking the snowflakes to find, yearlong sleep, which delightfulness sneaks!

My love is like a trigonometry problem simplified by my heart’s mint green genies, the broken being in me sings a million epiphanies, my life is but colors spilled in polaroids of caring butterflies.

The glass is broken into particles that now accept themselves as art.

Thoughts in bottles battled and shattered the glass of their containers, which floated in the ocean like a sun made of diamonds.

The spikes of the cactus which grows in my heart, are alike the water lilies that only bloom in the dark.

The sound of wind chimes, soothing my mind, removing all the frames of my mind, takes me straight away, to the depth, depth of my mind!

The day I know who I am, why and how is known of me, I will be me, Me: free from thorns and petals that go round and round, in heads and heels, and would reveal me, me indeed!

My heart isn’t a song of silver and gold, it holds a million graves of solitary souls.

I was a glittering sea waving at me, like a child smiling in his father’s lap, the waves lapse every time the sea sees the child in me!

Prohibited from plucking my bluebell emotions, my non-existent existence keeps kindling the aroma of my love.

Tied to worldly illusions, our sight is but a painted vision.

Break me, Break me, Break me until the broken cells of my mind become the glitter of your eyes! My shattered glass neurons have become your tears now.

What is commonly called love, namely the desire of satisfying a voracious appetite with a certain quantity of delicate white human flesh.

And what is so intricate, so entangling as death? Who ever got out of a winding sheet?

Her delicate breasts shake his enormous apparatus in elaborate worship.

Love is knowing that she is delicate and not breaking her still.

Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight; With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.

The trust to hold what is delicate within you should only be given to someone whose hands are as gentle as your heart.

A new idea is delicate. It can be killed by a sneer or a yawn; it can be stabbed to death by a quip and worried to death by a frown on the right man’s brow.

The sharp thorn often produces delicate roses.