Somewhere in those murky alleys,

Among those rose painted bricks,

His dark silhouette lurks with stealth;

Solving the mysteries left un-dealt,

Or forever in the depth of azure waves,

Tangled in weeds of his barren mind,

His pale fingers bathing in the ink;

Our un-sent letters had left behind,

Among the trails of whispering pines,

Rooted deeply in the soil of his heart,

A traveller lost within those woods

A silver compass of golden stars,

Scattered between the dust and dunes,

The desert silk encasing his hands,

A loner behind his caravan,

Searching for peace in grains of sand;

Or maybe among those silver swirls,

That softly caress my window panes,

A healer as gentle as the fragrant wind;

A healer with no cure to his own pain,

Maybe he lingers on frosted balconies,

Entranced forever by the lucent skies

Weaving with skill ; patterned clouds;

Miracles undone with his goetic sighs,

Is he hiding in that lonesome box,

Concealed within - etched on his walls,

Masked behind that curtained lace

Stone deaf to my deafening calls,

Oh Is he there in the dancing curves,

Of every word that strings my rhymes,

Like somber black flooding the pages;

Lost 'nd found in the strokes of night,

So when I write below this night,

Searching around for secret lies;

I wonder if he - existed beyond -

Rather a mirage of my lightless eyes.