StormRiderzz

This is a cold world—bitter, silent, steeped in dread, Where solitude is colder than the words unsaid. And so, at times, you linger where the frost takes hold, Though ice may pierce your bones, you choose to bear the cold.   Two kinds of souls you'll find upon this earth we tread— Not man and woman, good and bad, or heart and head. Not clever minds nor ones that flail and fall apart— But Hot and Warm, the only types that fill the heart . The Hot ones, they offer swift escape from chill ,   A blazing fire that bends the world to passion's will.   They’re radiant, magnetic, thrilling to behold, Alluring, wild, enchanting, beautiful and bold. They shine like beacons, brilliant in the stormy night, Like lamp-lit glass that draws in moths beneath the light.   The fiery souls erupt with scorching fire, A tempest born of surging passion’s ire. They storm your shores with blasts of fierce desire , And leave your tender hopes in crimson pyre.   Their flam...

You dance in my dreams like a drifting ghost , My joy, my ruin—my cursed, cherished host .    Ever since fate carved your shape in my skies , You bewitched me with storms in your soft eyes . I yearned to speak—yet silence wove a chain , A year crawled by, then you appeared in pain . You came to me when you had lost your light , While I stood tall, my stars in fullest height . I veiled my moons, eclipsed my loyal skies , Yet found my heaven in your shadowed eyes .  You broke my heart not once, but twice with ease , Then patched it up with soft, repeated pleas . You claimed you liked me — yes, you did , But I doubt it was as fierce as in my heart I hid . I say you’re special, but it fades in the air ,  You nod, but I wonder if you’re truly aware . You say I’m special, yet I feel so unseen , A wilted laurel waiting, stripped of its sheen . Is hope a sin — to dream that you'd be mine ? For though I'm praised, your love I can't divine .    Admired by ma...

  SONG TO MY BOUGAINVILLEA Drink to me only with thine eyes,          And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup,          And I’ll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise          Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,          I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath,          Not so much honouring thee As giving it a hope, that there          It could not withered be. But thou thereon didst only breathe,          And sent’st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,          Not of itself, but thee. Haan, Says not me but Ben Jonson to his Celia, You need not be so poetic, my bougainvillea. You are already a poem to this poet, However, not fully read yet, not fully read yet. Even in your spelli...