The heart is blind, but eyes are still open—

Was it a common accident, blasting in a searing expression?

if each comes separately, 

How will you find the one to lead the other one?

It's like a cynic, residing always within but 28 days—

trying hard resisting the offer. 

emotions are palpable, history is unrequited

so forgive the naive heart, touching for world 

ridden wars, confined in four walls—

one is shouting, one is craving, one is cracking—

no wonder, you rise in the middle of the night

to read ocean-going tales. 

If you gather rocket flare speed, 

you may get bird's wings, 

catching up with smoke-ridden folks, you'll see

someone's exchanging their hearts on sleeves. 

I'd found a pleasure, at least if it counts as pleasure—

heated in an isolated corner, quiet room appeared

as louder, I, being the painter—

painted so many hearts, wearing sleeves.

Now, sitting in a boat— 

I bid farewell to thin bottle of holes, 

they float, they wave, they collide, they crash—

Do I care to be seen? 

saying to the next person, sitting with me

then, every lives faded in the blink of grey green. 

Let me know where you want to be seen, 

perhaps, I will paint another heart on sleeves.

. . .