Tune me up, perhaps, the night star would glance back at me

To single out the hymn now imbued in this body

All colors may articulate what a painting would not want to display

When the music gathered the piece of me every day.

Heavy bricks may rain duly to this kaleidoscopic Poppies

And this mood could trickle down to its terminal censure

Owing to your hands painting the song

scribbling with regards to my temperamental hues.

You could get these hands to clap in unison

Seconds may pass but the tune would still want to be rough

Such a character isolating caress, it would allow

Brimming with desire blasting off calumny.

To that one man, His music is all.

I sent out letters cascading through outer space

While you gloated the stardom

And painted new planets, I wondered what my role was in this

Alluring universe. Through which I saw

Dimly lit parallel lines that never would elucidate—

We’d bypass each other’s brass rings

And will be left out gawking.

Will this remain a storybook of our indelicate suffering,

Or would this remain an ethereal world of my own?

 

 

 

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