I finally came to my senses and stood before you with my poetic heart

I longed for the fire of the dim star.

But I was a scream without season.

Doors that close in my face rather than when I shut myself in.

Sometimes strange dreams, sometimes verses that I know as sarcophagus.

Was it the treat of the season, this intoxicating bustle?

Was my heart the disciple of the day I sent down stories to the wicked?

I, on the other hand, remembered a familiar face as love, in me I knew the heat of the season and the love of the season as a slave...

They're all fake people.

All of them are rebellion, just like the curse of the named demon...

There are verses that I imitate, on my incessant collar, and a badge on my chest, almost traces of love.

I ruled the sky, I turned into the black of the night, sometimes I became a bird in my dreams, sometimes I became depressed and fell into the pit.

My heart is hidden in my nature, my heart is hidden in the story of a poem that I have knitted words based on love.

Star clusters and rose gardens shed light on my heart, and sometimes my grave that I dug is the reason why I want to walk away from the water.

Your eyes that sometimes touch my heart in so many words that remain in me.

My body is riddled with holes and the resin of pain oozing from every part of me.

The night I hooked up.

Mountains are literally thousands of unspoken syllables.

I fell to the ground when the lowlights came down, and sometimes I knew the three or five traces hidden in the heart of my heart, just as I knew the way and loved without knowing the way, only in fact, the clouds were actually clouds I imitate and I don't have a story, they are the traces of thousands of stories I traced and I was secretly exiled.

The mind that is driving.

Is the consolation hidden in my grave?

I am the angel of love, whose journey never aligns with your life, and I am rehearsing before the apocalypse. The bare feet I run every time I run into trouble is only my Lord.

Steaming inside of me.

Leaking out.

I included.

Sometimes I drink poems line by line.

Let me kneel with each line and my sanctuary is hidden in my starboard.

Sadness soot got on me and I was exiled to other geographies with the rush of loneliness.

In the reign of my Lord, and here I am, every emotion that I am annotated with, my heart that spreads at every moment, and I am an unseasonably windy day, I embraced the night I expelled, and embraced only with love.

Every poem of mine is halal like my mother's white milk, and sometimes the mystery of my mourning is hidden in my face beyond a sigh of relief in the whirlpool of a captivity unknown.

Bubbling waves.

Stacked syllables and dreams.

Whatever I don't have as much as I praise, there is nothing in my eyes, most of all, I passed the property of the world.

My guide is the nightingale.

The curse of the crow is the hyacinth, the companion of the rose.

Spiritually strong, sometimes daring, the human themes that I stumble upon the most, I loved with my heart and gave up with my loneliness, I mean that I built a temple from bouncing syllables inside me like a speck on a dove's wing, and here it is hidden in the recklessness of the wind.

I've crossed deserts.

I crossed the mountains.

Finally, I came to myself and went into the presence of my Lord with my heart and poetry at night.

Every time I pray, I feel good and I run in a hurry. I sit cross-legged to the bedside of mercy. The foresight of faith is as much peace as I imitate the happiness attached to it, my only consolation is peace, and every time it manifests, I lie on the walls of the sky, where I can't get enough of my gratitude, and I entrust my secrets, my secrets, to my Lord.

The season calls.

The wind supply is figuring.

Sorrow is silent, spring passes away.

Summer is the harbinger of winter, and sometimes it is the mud pouring out from the rebellious shadows that smears me and I present my color to the night, and at night it sniffs, and I sob, syllable syllable.

Some of the feelings that have no pronunciation and my pen that translates to my heart, of course, every time my pen is present, I wish the Creator perfect poems, the angel of inspiration.

It is He who makes people love and write.

The wisdom of the faith that I share my loneliness with, here is my recourse.

A curtsy is poetry.

Peace of mind if it's a reference.