More I open your empty chatbox
Than I open my mouth.
More I type and delete right off
Than I write at large.
You’re my muse, a wisp, a disease,
Only your whisper,
But your whisper!
May bring ease or unease.
You’re not a monster, not a beaut,
Not a genius, not a brute.
I don’t know who you are,
I don’t know.
Like tasting a glass of rapture:
Hey! Another glass, or the bottle!
Where is your magical source anyway?
I mind to possess, you.
I don’t want to possess,
Neither I want to be possessed-
I just want to feel,
I just want to feel, anything.
I thought it’s a mystery,
But you are a human.
My mindframe is a mystery,
I am less humane.
Horses are gorgeous!
You love birds, kids, their huskies.
But I’m a mystery.
I feel all but what a human feels.
My reality is a curved mirror,
Who would tell I’m wrong,
I see, I copy you, you fool!
It’s a mistery.
It’s a mysterious moment, is it:
You feel my unsent letters!
You feel many things, human!
But the less I feel, I feel better.
Mr Mysterious you’re looking for?
We must be wrong, lady.
This world lacks mystery, Miss.
But in another dimension, Inshaallah.