By: Anyssa Q. E. 


A bouquet of senses,

Of course will be sensed,

as a bouqet of roses enjoyed,

But a bouqet of symbols,

With scents so intense,

may sometimes go along ignored. 


What I'm putting into tense,

is that you cannot sense,

something you did not dissect,

you taste a mirage, an illusion, a lie, 

and go about with a giddy effect.


But to those only few,

with hearts heavy with nostalgia,

and minds numbed with emotion,

and eyes weary from insomnia, 


Do you feel the words I feel 

as I say-

Do you feel the words I write?

Does emotion haunt you night and day, 

and steal you from your flight?

Does nostalgia unknown weight heavy-

as lead,

Does your body creak and groan?

Have you grown tired in heart and head,

do you, too, crave to go home?


See you, and I, weren't meant in this life,

though it is said that it was choice.

I'm tired, so tired, I could surely die,

and I fear I'm losing my voice.


This point here is, I feel alone, 

I feel my voice has gone unknown,

All though I watch from a top,

and I call to those I may call my own,

who've waited, too, by the Astral Trainstop,

life in, life out, through eternal snow. 











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