Your eyes are Van Gogh's spellbound night
With a glimpse of autumn's daylight
Your face, touched by Michelangelo's warm hands
Finely shaped from you fingertips to your hair strands
Your scars are alluring, beautifully cursed
Unspoken, sheltered in Homer's epic verse
Your voice is the rain's rhythm morphed into a melody
The blacks and whites in Beethoven's symphony
Your frame is classic, the hidden narrative
Upon the portraits of Da Vinci in his perspective
You are the catharsis, the beauty in art
When Juliet's dagger entered her heart
You are the love in ballerinas' smokey motions
When Swan Lake's climax drew on fair sensations
You are the the ecstasy of a human consciousness
When a drama lost its grip and devoured madness
You are not Alice, you are the Wonderland itself
You are the daydream nursed in my bookshelf
I am this Mad Hatter, the poem weaver
Addressing the one who left me in a cliff-hanger
I am stained... with the inks of our history
The happily ever after supposed to be
Living now with the ghosts that all you left me
And as I let these memories be the home of my poetry
