I stare

I stare at things until I understand the forms of it,

I dive into them to know the shapes they hold,

Is it even measurable ,

No I'm stepping on his grass,

Failing to glaze.

No, his roses doesn't have thrones,

Unlike mine,Which grows from his body,

has the slightest of it.

I plough, I wait, every night,

For His unconsciousness to bare the light.

holding his innocuous eyes, in my prosaic life,

Has let me breathe till this time.

For that I'm only a blind being,

You can't blame this feather which flies,

which only seeks the abundance you leave.

All to demise,

this last collide,

in his And hers,

as yours and mine, as us,

Till I float away as a paper boat you tied.