Her voice
is softer
than the
moon, her
countenance
is that of a
fragile
symphony,
soaring
in her violin
song,
she is the
paralian
who lies
upon the
shore
and lets
the emerald
become her
dress and hair,
In the night
ocean, she
hears the
vague
waves of
memories
moving as
light in the
revolving
lanterns of
her mind,
the rose of
time opens,
she recollects
of how she was
the hidden petals
of the library,
delicate in the
secrecy of her,
beyond the old
books, within
her eyes, where
he saw the layers
of her rose
unfold before
the pages
she turned,
it was magical,
he thought,
of how the
small things,
the sea flower
of her secret
garden,
was once
revealed
to none,  
realized
only by
the one
who saw
with the
heart,
the clouds
became
words
unsung
in the gentle
glass silk
caressing
her fair hands,
she mused
upon where
to begin and
end, as she,
the wanderer,
returned from
her dreams,
she closed
her eyes,
through
time,
jazz,
space
and
healing,
the loner
awakens
in the shore
and sails,
holding
the stars
In her coffee
& a vintage
camera,
and it
echoed
to her,
what she
once said
to her lover,
the gentle of
how they
floated as
petals
above the
lotus
ponds,
in the
touching
of hands
and the
secret
she held
in the rose,
I will invite
you to hear
it’s whisper,
“to love is to be
as the water,
to the silver
song, you
will return.”

You were a symphony of stardusts
And I, a lost prismatic star
But you came to me
As if I was your constellation
As if I was your universe
You came to me
And suddenly,
I am drawn to your symphony

They say there are storms in
                                            teacups.

There like a summer breeze,


compared
              to the tsunami
         of caffeine denial.
                   That floods
                    upon the shores of my

         day washing everyone away.

I need my Jave, like I need to breath..

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.

Music—the score of victories,
triumphant cymbals of success
of orchestrated histories,
to regal anthems to impress.

Music—scribbled notes to recall,
arranged in sync with beating hearts
resounding with clarion call,
of overtures meaning imparts.

Music—felt across Earth’s measure,
in staccato revelation
that accompanies God’s treasure—
the symphony of creation.

Music—God’s whistle in the wind,
that piano voice, in us He set
the atonal key, blessed or sinned,
music is our divine duet.

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