don't make the right poem for the wrong person

In the awkward moment between birth and death,
we are born again each morning,
dispensation of a moments breath
stalled amongst our calling.


We woke within a broken dream,
roused to break the falling,
the glisten of the sunlights beam,
broke through, exposed the fallen.


I spoke to you within my sleep,
you stirred around the cauldron,
in ways the day was ours to seize,
but couldn’t wake the mourning.

Music made from you,
With your voice,
Your instruments,
Are unrivaled.

Exquisite notes flow effortlessly,
Entrancing women,
To descent deeper,
And deeper in love.

Your composition style,
Is a gift inherited.
It can not be acquired.

You told me your
Ingenious father showed you
All that you know.

The casual way,
You beguiled me with
Your music, making me
Feel heaven bound.

My heart was your instrument,
Manipulating and conquering it.

Lies were your notes,
Enchanting them to
Appear truthful.

My mind the foolish audience,
Awaiting an encore,
One performance was
Never good enough.

You continuously performed,
Yet I continuously stayed.