...
You're cupping embers
    in antique palms
    that were meant
    to harvest moonlight.

Raindrops ghost over earth's skin
   nebula clouds map universal eyes,
   and you're just a masterpiece
   who is best friends with time.

Don't let those pianos play you,
   serenade and masquerade you
    because we all seem to
    fall in love with the right music,
    and all the wrong notes.

That friend lit a fire in your room,
   seven embers destroying
    unfamiliar wallpaper.
    You burnt your dream catcher,
     to cinders and charcoal;
     Now you pray for sunlight,
     all you've got is a lonely candle's flame.

But from the nightmares and windowsill,
   moonlight slipped through
         and in your palms
         you held
         my words.

Fire doesn't last forever, Leonie.
...

~

Vibrations loosen
 the dust on my piano,
  releasing tiny particles
   into a rectangle sunbeam
    dancing about the glass,
     as I play compositions
      upon freeform keys,
       fingered imagination
        frantically moving
         levers in never before
          heard melodies
           with a locked
            sustain pedal
             holding each note
              to gradually
               evanesce
                into silence
                 as the dust
                  once
                        again
                                se­ttles

In the flowing lights of a musical romance, there lives a queen.

And she dances so violent.
She sings so silent.

She is everything, anything, heart filled with happiness, soul filled with sadness.
Mind filled with madness.

She is flawed perfection, the crack in logic we crave.
The innocent child we all wish to save.

She is waves, she is fire, she's not me.
But I'm here, I'm alive and I'm her.

Her creator, her pain and her love.
I am everything, anything, nothing at all.

Running wild, standing tall. What is real, what is truth, what is lie, who am I?

Is it me or the world who is wrong, who does wrong, who acts wrong, am I wrong?

In the blank spaces, there dances a queen, and in the ink that are lines, here rests I.

For this book is me.
And captured between infinate pages I fly free.