Aglia Nost Poems

There is no more lonesome day, no signle saddest way to die

There is no time that can murder as brutaly
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Kicks may hurt, words may pain, there is nonetheless no agony as deep, as endless, as restless as that of thoughts, thoughts of a love alive, a love vibrant; which has from my sole willingly resigned.

A love not dead, no. For life is not as stunning as poets wish and sadness is beyond the cures that exist, and love, true love makes a lover die more than he lives
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To poetry I owe everything, I owe all that life and love, together haven't given me.

I owe it your adventurous descriptions of highness and standards, those boring words, those so-called stanzas.
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I fear my words are too small to describe stupidity in all its timelessness. And I wonder how better could have my thoughts described it then when stupidity can't hold her horrors tight and just speaks for itself.

When you walk out of darkness, open a door convinced that you will be blinded by the true flaming light of a better reality, and see the utter nothingness of a content blank. It is then that you are hopeless, then thoughts are gone and roughly, in your wobbly heart strikes an even more deeply dark reality; you know regretedly in you'll always be.
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So many words were spoken yet still nothing was said.
Our toy-machine, rushed vows are now broken, and purely within you I lay dead.
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Je pleure pour un homme qui ne comprendra jamais mes problemes. Ta ville, mon garçon est trop longue, comme ma vie et le pouvoir de la sienne. Je plaure pour une pluie noire bien trop proche et pour une memoire bien trop lointaine. Je t'aime.

Seule je marche sur une rue grie aux ponts trop fragiles et au broullard plein de promnesses mortes et panebres. Et mes larmes sont si molles, comme unepluie aggrassive, ni sonore, ni celebre.
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I fear my words are too small to describe stupidity in all its timelessness. And I wonder how better could have my thoughts been expressed then when stupidity can't hold her horrors tight and just speaks for itself.
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I now fully understand why you're acting so insanly, why you've so logically gone mad.

I now know you're tearing me to unbondable crums and making me beg, before with grace you untidily stick them together to reform my crippled heart.

it's an expirement you've thought of to put into your blank CV, saying: Oh, look, I've done some really avant-garde atomic science.

Dividing your admiror's heart down, chopping it up in a manner only you could make as dreadful to find its atom
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For those long, rigid, golden fingers that seem to ever so elegantly seduce every little thing that they as much as approach, those long, endless wonders that ever so eloquently soak my mind in our excellence.

For that touch of godly empathy, heartfelt compassion, and hurtful, truthful honesty. For that touch that so madly I envy, dear. That touch that you vividly possess, dear.
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If my appriacition for you was a droplet than the universe would burst open of floods every day.

If my respect for your excuisite excellence was a lie than the world would be too honest a place to live in.
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