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

tsunami

gushes of water

flooding the streets,

an unceasing moment where

there's nowhere to flee.

trapped,

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

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