"It is really beautiful up here" she whispered.

Her skin brightened in the glow of the fading masterpiece of crimsons, yellows, and golds the sun had brushed across the turquoise sky "This is it, this is what heaven is like."

I couldn't hear her, but I could read her soft spoken lips and study her face, which I always imagined as less of the cover to a book and more every word inside. There was not a greatness of a sadness that ceased to mask her portrait. She was all heart and soul, every bit of her.

I watched as her bright eyes change to become more glass than eyes. As if, for the first time, she was seeing life, love, and something more. Something so deep and beautiful that not even Hemmingway or Fitzgerald could even begin to put the prefix of it into thought.

Among the dusting of the clouds and transparent sunset I felt her heartbeat could silence and the lungs of which gave her the life I so cherished could empty turning her flesh a pale blue, and she would fade peacefully into the scene before me.

This very thought frightened me. Too soon would her feet touch the ground and nothing I was humanly capable of, or possibly godly capable of, would ever captivate and hold her so perfectly or turn her eyes as vivid - and there was nothing more I wanted.

Blossoms look better in the rain;
reaching into black mist and white wind,
singing like a deaf woman

I'll marry any man who agrees

Clouds roll in and thunder roars
Tears, they fall in rage
burning rivers down the face
Of the once innocent
Humanity ripped from souls
The heartless rise
The careless linger
What was once is no longer
What should be, never was
Ineffectual words
Counting down to nothing

never hearing the applause
or the symphonies he orchestrated
amputating the legs of his piano
to feel the vibrations on the floor
only to get down on his knees
for music

The rattling door as the wind whistles
the calls of the crows amongst the fields
shuffling feet that stirs the dirt
you can't imagine the power it yields

The grunts, the sighs from every mouth
the clicks, the clacks on the keyboard
the whine of a lonely pup
I've never heard that kind of cord

When the music dips and climbs
and we feel the pounding bass
as it stalls before the drop
then, we're locked
in a quiet place

Then waves in the air
and the quivering ground
are drowned to death
by shrieking sounds

But what you hear
comes nowhere near
to the Song of Thumps
that guides my world

So don't pretend you
feel the pounding floor
the way that I do