Piled Ashen

My heart is a volcanic cold stone,

And each eye is motley  bead,

And my body is Derelict hulk,

And my tears are poisoned lead.

yet, I feel like an ordinary man,

I smile, talk, hallucinate and cry,

And sit and walk and have a trance,

And breathe, yet my veins are dry.

I believe I have a sweet foster home,

A room in the garden and a flower,

Who talks to me every calm evening,

About springs and her idol weather.

My eyes reflects colors of the world,

None of them creeps into doughy brain,

And a mirror in me is blinded in design,

And intuition reads past in future's pain.

O,  soul's false myth of heavenly feet,

Thy seraphic dreams no longer exist;

And thy stories are defeated glories,

Piled ashen that can't, a puff, resist.