I’m so wrapped up in you,
your voice is music to me.
Synonymous to the scent of
a salty ocean breeze.

Like a whiff of the first bud
on a wild rose blooming,
or the violet sensations
of magnolias in spring.

It sings to my soul,
like it’s all I’d ever need
to be completely fulfilled
and eternally pleased.

A melodic symphony,
of a thousand strings,
so powerful it moves me
to the core of my being.

To get lost in you,
comes with so much ease,
encompassed in your presence,
as if all time has ceased.

Looking up to the galaxy
Watching the moon trying to take a deep breathe
Listening to the battle of symphony
That made of by perfect windy
Sipping on straight harmony
Dancing with the darkest melody
It contains my sanity

I go around writing songs
Of love, hate, and fear
Humans' heart and childern's dreams
Lost among melodies and notes
Until you came
And put me in your song

I hear the Violins,
Vouching for each trivial,
But fair feature of yours that lies chaste.

I hear the Violas,
Bearing the melancholy,
Your heart conceals deep within.

I hear the Cellos,
Pouring the velvety essence of love,
In my sullen ears.

I hear the Woodwinds,
Singing for beauty, calling for love-
All in unison.

But then the Clarinet disagrees,
For the sheer taste of dissonance.
There,the Oboe tries to moderate,
As the Flute flares up,
Emphatically proposing the passion be mutual.
Then the Strings intervene,
And all play in unison-
The purest articulation of the desire,
For love - yet unmet.

I hear the Brass finally,
With Percussion on its side,
Sounding as though Zeus were to erase Mount Olympus,
Arising turmoil,
Provoking the Strings and the Winds,
Ousting the gentle harmonies,
And ousting the gentle melodies,
And alas! ousting the very notion of love.

Yet,I love the symphony.
And You - are the symphony.
The most beautiful I've heard.

Play me a melody
           that I may slumber.

Not to count sheep,
     more like to feed
on the carcass of
                 decaying dreams.

For in the lethargy that consumes
            me knows no awakening.

For the sheep no longer jump
          a cloud they are atop
the earth decaying in the nightmares
                           of life's living  
apprehension.