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?