Painting over mould
makes me think of winter , and
the first day of spring

I’ve been running to the shore, to the sunset, to the sand
where my toes and the breeze compose a symphony in secret
it starts piano, almost pianissimo, no one has to know that we,
We share the talent, the gift of an emotional crescendo
that we all stamp our feelings on staffs and our hearts are in sync
in sync we are always we are always following the smooth tempo of
time and we’re just all harmonizing with the beach
with the muffled sopranos that flutter around someone who waltzes
with a guitar between their arms, in an alley filled with graffiti
in a salty atmosphere and fresh beans and rice
A little mambo here and there while strolling
down the piano tiles that make up the streets
a little mambo here and there, to keep us going
pianissimo, we must keep it pianissimo
so the world won’t know… yet… that we’re all an impromptu group
we are all interconnected, living under the same staff but different clefs
rarely sharing the beats of our cultures
rarely following canons
it always vibrates, the lingering nostalgia
buzzing, missing the old jazz and the shores, sunsets, and sands
that we shared in our old homes, away from here
We hope it makes sense that our lives are ran in decrescendo
but the connections within each other always form the same ensemble
percussion and wind, forming the shore we stand in front of
the orchestra itself becoming the sand slipping from our hands
and we form the sunset, the sunset that leads everyone here
we all know how we go back home.

There is a glass box in the ocean
Invisible to the nautical eye

How it hides beneath the subtle waves
As the breakers and boats berate the tempest skies

For amidst the ocean of unending salt
Amidst the darkness of the currents below

There is only this
An ounce of freshwater in a box of glass

Unfound, both in and of itself
How it will ever preserve and still outlast